


Higher than the Beasts

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (but without the death), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erica and Isaac are Twins, Hunter!Stiles, Hunting Wars, I just really love the idea of the Stilinski Siblings, Lydia is the Mercutio to Scott's Romeo, M/M, Secrets & Conspiracies, Stilinski Hunting Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s so easy to forget that his father is a hunter, Stiles thinks, because he’s his <em>dad</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ending Parade

**Author's Note:**

> So this all started when I saw [this picture](http://www.malecelebnews.com/wp-content/images/2012/05/Teen-Wolf-Season-2-Promo-Pics-10.jpg) and then I got it in my head that they looked like hunters and siblings and it would NOT leave me alone. So, I'm writing it! I wanted to do a Sterek of it because as well as being my OTP I kind of want to explore the dynamic of their relationship (romantic and otherwise) when Stiles is just as capable as Derek is in terms of physical prowess.  
> Warnings for usage of canon typical violence and gory descriptions. 
> 
> I think Hunters get a really bad rep in this fandom too, so I kind of wanted to offer up a slightly different view of it, I mean in the show we're kind of biased to hate them, y'know?  
> But anyway - I hope you like it! :)
> 
> Of course, Teen Wolf does not belong to me (sad as it may be) it belongs to the original creator Jeff Davis, and all the affiliates of MTV, all of whom created this wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)

Higher than the beasts, lower than the angels, stuck between the two in our idiot's Eden.

**Ford Madox Ford**

-

There's always something innately peculiar about sneaking out in some place new, Stiles thinks, something distinctly insistent about the way that the moon burns the same heady white in the sky as everywhere else and the way that the air stills like it’s watching, waiting.

Energy zings beneath his skin like a living entity as he guides the jeep over the uneven terrain of the Beacon Hills Preserve. The forest is black and wide, with the trees that surround them standing tall and skeletal in the autumn backdrop.

The jeep’s headlights create beams of light that shatter the darkness that surrounds the forest like a transcendent being.

When the jeep rolls to a stop on a deserted road side about a mile into the forest and the engine dies out into a breathy hum, Stiles jumps out of the car, sliding a hand through his hair and practically  _burning_ with raucous energy.

Beacon Hills is different from any place that they have ever been, it’s quiet and demure - an entire world away from the rush of Baltimore, the chaos of Rochester, and the frenzy of Chicago. They’ve spent the better part of two weeks in this town and he’s still not used to the pace of it. Everything here is slow, hushed, calm.

Nothing irritates him more.

The forest floor is soggy, with crushed leaves and stray bits of tree bark littering the ground, and as Stiles creeps towards the back of the jeep, his sister sidles out of the passenger seat with her blonde curls pinned up in a tight bun and a sturdy pair of hiking books laced up on top of her [denim jumpsuit](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-seventh-ave-new-york-2/).

When Stiles opens the back, Isaac hops out of the backseat, the one their father had installed the summer that Stiles got the jeep, scrubbing a hand over his tumble of brown curls and tugging uselessly at the collar of his dark grey sweatshirt. As they quickly huddle around the back of the car, Stiles pulls out their weapons whilst Erica gives a cursory look around the darkened forest with a skilled, swift motion and their brother busily fastens his brown leather archery gloves tight around his wrists.

Erica turns back around and smirks when she sees Stiles handing Isaac his ivory coloured bow case and quiver.

“Careful, little brother,” she mutters, eyeing him as he pulls out the bow from its padded case. “Someone might mistake you for an Argent.”

Isaac snaps his bow open and the sound crackles through the air, crisp, fair and loud; it’s a gleaming cherry wood [Hoyt Buffalo recurve bow](http://www.lancasterarchery.com/hoyt-buffalo-hunting-recurve-bow.html) with a tightly corded rope, as black as midnight, and a strong grip. While it’s not Isaac’s usual weapon, it nonetheless remains one of his favourite gifts. He smiles at her looking wild and unruly, every inch the reckless teenager that he is.

“Careful, big sister,” Isaac says. “Someone might mistake you for the prey.”

They begin to argue back and forth; even after Stiles hands Erica her silver knife set, two sleek, paper-thin blades forged in liquid wolfsbane, the two taunt each other with familial banter in pseudo whispers and hissed diatribes. And while Stiles would normally be amused by all of their teasing, they were now standing in the middle of the forest with a supernatural thing on the loose, and he’d actually rather not die tonight, thanks.

“ _Guys_ ,” he hisses, not bothering to look at either of them as he clips the magazine into his handgun, a shimmering silver Beretta 92 complete with a Batman inscription in the bottom right corner of the handle. He was fourteen, it was his first gun - I mean, _honestly_ , what else was he going to do?

Erica and Isaac instantly quieten at Stiles’ reprimand, and Stiles entreats, “Can we please do this some other time?”

They track through the forest with learned stealth, the twins making hardly any noise as they flank their older brother, Isaac on Stiles’ left and Erica on his right, their flashlights catching on the divots and alcoves of the darkened forest. They’re on high alert, both for the thing that has been leaving mutilated corpses around the woods and their father, the new Sheriff of Beacon Hills.

They’re not looking for the supernatural thing. Whatever it is, their dad has a strict policy on the hunting business and they don’t know near enough to take on this thing by themselves. So instead they’re going to look for the newest body - half of it anyway.

The only reason that they know about the discovered corpse tonight is because three summers back, Stiles and Isaac had figured out how to hijack and repurpose one of their father’s deputies’ police radio. The guy was an idiot and was promptly relieved of his job mere weeks after, so Stiles doesn’t feel too bad about ‘borrowing’ his radio. But the device was always plugged in whenever their father was out on a job.

He isn't stupid enough to think that his father doesn't know about the radio of course, but as far as he is concerned, if his dad doesn't bring it up, it's fair game. Besides, he only wants to know what all the fuss is about; he wants to know what exactly made their father want to move to Beacon Hills. 

Erica is the one who hears it first. She stops in her tracks and smacks an arm across Stiles’ stomach to stop him and he immediately does the same to Isaac. Together they stand, motionless amongst the trees, inhaling the scent of the thick mildew carried by the fog hanging low to the ground as it cards through their legs.

For long, drawn-out seconds the only thing that they can hear is their breathing syncing together and the mild scratching and furrowing sounds of woodland creatures settling in for the night.

Then the crisp bristle of something moving through the undergrowth has the Stilinskis moving at once; they turn instinctively so that they make a circle, facing outwards with shoulders touching and their weapons out, completely covering each other’s backs.

They listen hard in silence, adrenaline coursing through their body, because  _of course_ the thing would find them instead; it's just their luck.

Stiles grips the base of the gun and hopes to all that is good and holy that he doesn't have to use it. A gunshot will certainly be heard through the preserve, and he doesn't particularly want to explain to the authorities why he has an unregistered gun on him.

“Three o’clock,” Erica whispers a few seconds later, and they all turn in that direction with their weapons raised and ready. They find a pair of scarlet eyes already looking at them from a few yards away, the colour of the eyes burning luminescent in the jade undergrowth with dark, dirtied fur covering the spaces around the eyes. It doesn’t look like a normal Alpha transformation though, Stiles notes. This thing looks like it got stuck between the full wolf form and the Beta form which can only mean-

“ _Shit_ , feral Alpha, get back!” Stiles shouts, already smacking his arms into his siblings to force them behind him.

He does it all without any regards for quietness in his panic because they've already been seen by the wolf, but it’s too late because the thing is already running towards them on all fours with its spine arched high and ready to leap into the air and maul them all to death.

He makes a split-second decision even as they begin to retreat, and he grabs Erica by the back of her neck and pushes her face into his chest, yelling, “Isaac, flare the tree!”

Isaac stops in his tracks and quickly fires the arrow he had already fitted to the bow into the werewolf's shoulder before quickly finding a flaring arrow amongst the standard arrows in his quiver. He expediently nocks the arrow again, kissing the bow with a look of sheer, unadulterated concentration.

Stiles barely sees the steel rotary drill turn, just below the head of the arrow with a distinct _click,_ before the arrow is flying through the air, lodging deep into the bark of a tree by the side of the werewolf’s face before it ignites with a blazing, ivory heat.

He stands directly in front of Erica, using his body to shield her from the flashing lights as he counts the seconds.

In the first second, the flare burns through the wood of the tree and infuses the air with a burnished scent of pine and inferno; in the second, the werewolf falls back to the forest ground with a high and pitiful whimper, pawing at its grotesque face.

And in the third, Stiles grabs Isaac by the neck of his grey sweatshirt and pulls him backwards as they begin to run away from the werewolf. He keeps a hold of both of them as the adrenaline surges through his body, and Stiles pushes his siblings in front of him, looking back every so often to make sure that the werewolf isn't following them. 

They run and run and run, switching directions and wading through thick forestry to try and null their scent until they crash into a clearing. They scour the edges of the clearing with their weapons drawn, the particles of the dust they kick up floating aimlessly in the strong beams of their flashlights as they eye their perimeter.

They’re breathing heavily but they aren’t too winded and Stiles gives small thanks for his dad’s never ending training sessions. After tense moments, Stiles and Erica hesitantly lower their weapons, falling straight into their training, leaving Isaac to guard them with a straight spine and a keen eye.

“Erica?” Stiles prompts, but she already has her compass and her mobile phone out. She turns on her heel until she points somewhere in the vicinity behind Stiles.

“North is over there, but we came from the east so we are …” she taps her pale mint-coloured nail on the glass screen of her phone, sighs impatiently as the screen loads before she looks to her brother, “Three point seven five miles from the nearest road.”

Stiles resists the urge to groan. He scrubs a rough hand over his face and turns around on the spot, trying to come up with some kind of plan, something that hopefully ensures that they don’t re-encounter the rogue. Then he catches sight of something, a darkened lump at the furthermost edge of the clearing, right at the lip of overhang.

“What the hell is that?” Stiles asks the question half to himself, his head tipping to the side in instant curiosity as the sentence trails off, but he’s already making his way towards the shape. When he gets close enough, and his brain configures what he's actually seeing, he draws in a sharp breath.

He immediately holds up a hand to stop the twins, who had been following hot on his heels, from coming any further.

It's not the first corpse that he and his siblings have ever seen, and this is what they had been searching for anyway; but this is _different_. 

This is a whole different ballgame. It's a whole lot more visceral than his offhand suggestion that they go search for a body in the woods, because this isn't a body in a morgue, this isn't a scheduled werewolf biology lecture by one of the scientists his father has on hand, this is a _murder_ victim and Stiles is a strong believer that there are some things that fifteen year olds should not be privy to. 

In front of him is the top half of a female with long tendrils of dirty raven hair and tufts of black fur mottled in it, her mouth open as if in shock and her eyes wide, with a hazy deadened mist over the green that they used to be.

Stiles turns his gaze from her face though, he feels queasy just looking at her expression, seeing the insects crawling all over her, so blinks and he tries to look at her objectively instead; there’s a clean cut straight through her torso, her entrails spilling out of her in a congealed crimson mess.

The incision looks too surgical to be caused by claws or fangs, Stiles knows what that looks like, he's _seen_ it. He adjusts his flashlight and points the beam to just above the cut - searching, double-checking. But the skin is blemish free, no claw marks, bite marks. Nothing.

She’s streaked in dirt and grass stains, but the area around her is pretty much clean of freshly dried blood, which means she was probably dragged here.

Stiles lifts his head to let Erica and Isaac know what he's found when flashlights streak across his vision and a canine face appears in front of him. He startles, careening straight over the precipice. He can hear the twins making their rushed way towards him as he’s rolling down the hill.

Stiles tucks his head into his chest as he rolls, grunting as sticks and stones dig roughly into his skin even through his jacket, hoping he doesn’t collide with any trees.

He loses his gun and his flashlight somewhere along the fall, but as he comes to a stop at the bottom of the mound, he instantly rolls to a kneeled position, tense and ready.

When his eyes adjust to the bright light of the cars parked around him, he's slightly relieved to see police officers all around him, in the Beacon Hills police uniform with padded overjackets, and police hounds jumping eagerly towards his huddled figure despite being on their leashes.

There's a long awkward pause, accompanied only by the dogs' rough barking. Then the police officers swarm forward to apprehend him. 

“Now, _hang on,_ hang on a second,” a voice behind him says, cutting swiftly through the noisy fray. “This little delinquent belongs to me.”

The entire company of police officers seem to simultaneously deflate, the tension rolling off of their shoulders in waves as Stiles turns just in time to see his father, Sheriff John Stilinski, grab the back of his shirt and haul him up to his feet.

“Dad,” he croaks, smiling shakily as he tries for charm. “Fancy seeing you here.”  

The Sheriff raises his eyebrows, likely unimpressed and exasperated in equal measures with his son’s conduct, but Stiles merely shrugs and tries to appear nonchalant, hanging even as he is from his father's grip. The Sheriff rakes his gaze all over his son, searching for injuries, before he lets him go.

“Why are you here, Stiles?”

“I-, I'm just,” Stiles begins, nodding his head absently as he tries to come up with a decent answer. “I'm taking a walk y’know, in the forest of the new place, it looks real," he pauses, trying in vain to come up with a more articulate excuse. Defeated and dejected, he repeats woefully, "Real _nice_ in the moonlight.” 

"Nice," his father echoes.

Stiles scratches the back of his head, resists the urge to run his fingers through his hair. “Well, you did tell me to get to know the place so I’m ... putting the lotion in the basket.”

The conversation dithers into silence and Stiles knows his dad isn’t at all convinced. He can see the tanned skin around his eyes tighten in suspicion and realisation bloom in his eyes.

“If you’re here, then that means-.”

He turns on his heel then and looks towards the hill that Stiles had just fallen down; he heaves an infuriated sigh and he yells, “TWINS! You’ve got about five seconds to get your butts out here or I promise you, it’s going to hurt!”

It's almost comical how sheepishly, almost timidly, Isaac and Erica emerge from behind each tree they had commandeered in their haste to hide from their father. When they do appear, however, it's ostensibly without their weapons.

Stiles hopes that they picked up his gun, he loves that gun. Batman he calls it, that gun is the Batman to his Bruce Wayne and his father will likely disown him if he loses it.

They approach their father, Erica looking insolent as ever and Isaac with his cheeks burning red, both embarrassed at being caught. From the corner of his eye, Stiles can see the gathered police officers watching them with amusement.

The four Stilinskis commune slightly away from the general populace and their father directs a disapproving glare in each of their directions. But before the Sheriff can even open his mouth to begin to chastise them, Erica jumps in with a placating statement.

She leans in closer to their father and lowers her voice, “The weapons are taken care of, Isaac shot the rogue in the shoulder and Stiles found the body; we made absolutely sure we didn’t touch anything. Dad, c'mon, we _handled_ it.”

Erica knows better than to say precisely _how_ they handled it. Stiles is pretty sure that their father would have a heart attack if he knew that they used a flare when Erica was around, because nothing screams safety quite like Erica having an epileptic convulsion right as a werewolf attack is imminent.

Before the Sheriff can even reply, a loud howl scorches its way through the night sky and everybody present turns towards the sound. Adrenaline-infused goose bumps ripple across the surface of Stiles’ skin and a slither of fear runs down his spine as the Sheriff’s face changes instantly.

It’s so easy to forget that his father is a hunter, Stiles thinks, because he’s his _dad_.

His dad with the awkward dancing and the travel books and the god-awful cooking; and he's not just any hunter either, he’s _The Sheriff_ , one of the most prolific hunters in the country, if not the world, and right now he looks terrifying.

His gaze is sharp and calculating, his movements controlled and fierce and his mouth is a tight line of determination. His hand goes straight to unbuckle his gun, the one he personally refurbished with wolfsbane laced bullets, just as another howl reverberates around the forest.

It’s unnoticeable, but Stiles knows exactly how many concealed and unregistered weapons are hiding within the Sheriff’s uniform. Stiles is not at all envious of whatever crosses his path tonight.

The tension is flagrant and rife and so heady that Stiles can practically taste it at the back of his throat, even more so when the howls recommence and he realises that there are _two_ wolves, fighting one another.

Stiles’ hands twitch at his sides and he desperately wishes that he had his weapon on him, a cursory look to Isaac and Erica shows that they too feel the same way.

The area that they're standing in is eerily silent, everyone listening hard to the sounds of snarling coming from where the two wolves are presumably fighting somewhere deep in the forest. It’s loud and savage, and Stiles knows that there aren’t any wolves in California, which only leaves one other option.

The Sheriff turns towards them, looking controlled and decidedly lethal. “Where’s the jeep?”

“Four miles east,” Isaac says and bites his bottom lip in repentance at the Sheriffs’ sigh.

“Edmund?” The Sheriff calls over his shoulder, calling over one of the officers. She happens to be one of his father’s hunters. She’s tall and graceful, her black hair tied in a high ponytail, and she immediately takes her gun out of her holster as she moves towards them.

“Take the kids home will you? Make sure grab to their _things_ first," the Sheriff says. He barely even pauses as he places a subtle, but no less recogniseable, emphasis on his words, giving Edmund clear directions veiled even through his deceptive words. "Get Stiles to follow you in the jeep and get them _home_.”

The Sheriff turns his critical gaze onto his three children, “I’ll be calling the house in half an hour, and I expect you all to be there. Is that understood?”

Even despite the sounds of the police officers organising themselves, the sounds of the lupine fight drifting over the tree tops and the Stilinskis' incessant curiosity, the three of them stand in muted silence, watching their father with wary eyes.

“Is that _understood_?” John reiterates carefully.

None of them dare to refute their father; his voice brokers no argument so instead they nod and they chorus.

“Yes, sir.”

-

The incident in the woods is not spoken of after Sheriff Stilinski questions each of his children on what they saw later that night.

He shuts down any and all curiosity, mostly stemming from Stiles, surrounding the murders and the werewolf with a firm, _“There'll be no hunting talk until you’re eighteen,”_  and expediently sends them to bed after a long and harrowing lecture on using weapons in the vicinity of the unknowing public.

And it frustrates Stiles; he hates not knowing things and his dad know this but it’s not like Stiles can do anything about it - Stilinski house rules are law.

Instead Stiles plans to bide his time.

There's just something about the night before, something that doesn’t quite _make sense_ and the pieces of it keep jiggling in his mind, trying to fit.

He feels resentful of the fact that he has to head into his new school instead of being able to accompany his dad like he wants to. But it’s not like he can skip the first day, they do have appearances to keep after all.

Stiles feels indifferent to it, they’ve performed this song and dance a good few times before in various, much more intimidating cities.

Although Erica looks like she’s actually looking forward to it going by [the outfit](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-jardin-des-tuileries-paris-4/) that she’s wearing as Stiles steps out of his bedroom and into the hall.

“You’re not wearing that,” he says, eyeing the loose-fitting black culottes as she saunters down the hall, blonde curls tumbling in easy ringlets over her shoulder.

Erica blinks owlishly at him and Stiles finds himself deeply offended when she doesn’t even stop in her tracks, patting his cheek loftily, “Who’s gonna stop me?” 

She continues down the stairs with a self-satisfied smirk on her face and a spring in her booted step, leaving Stiles to follow in her wake like a dejected bird.

They go downstairs to find Isaac and their dad already speaking quietly in the kitchen downstairs, their father in the olive coloured uniform of the Beacon Hills Police Department, with his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and Isaac bringing breakfast over to the table from the stove.

The kitchen is the only place in the new house that is fully unpacked and furnished; the rest of the house being characterised by the chaos that is half-empty stacked boxes, but Stiles isn’t complaining because at least they have a house now. No more rented apartments in the furrows of whichever city they happen to be in. It’s a proper house, bought and owned, like their dad actually plans on staying this time.

The hour now finds the Sheriff not so much nursing his mug of coffee as allowing the slow congealment of the drink to circle the inside edges of the porcelain as he scours the _Beacon Hills Herald._ He looks up as Erica and Stiles walk in.

“You’re not wearing that,” he admonishes instantly, raising an eyebrow at his daughter. 

It's truly impressive how Erica doesn’t even miss a beat; she scoffs and smacks the Sheriff’s hand away from where it’s inching towards the bacon, throwing an unimpressed look in her father’s direction as she sits down at the table. “Dad? Please.”

John merely sighs, looking so exhausted that he doesn't even bother to argue with her. 

They eventually all settle around the round oak table in the kitchen to have breakfast. It’s a mess of medication handouts and _‘pass me the milk, moron’_ and switching of plates, of _"Dad, can you hand me the comics section of the paper?"_ and half-finished, half-abandoned conversations.

“So,” John begins when they finally quieten, closing the newspaper with a crisp fold and placing it atop the glossed black hunter files, the files that Stiles hadn’t even _seen._  His hand is already creeping towards the folders, but the Sheriff slaps his hand away without even batting an eyelid, “What’s going on this week?”

“Lacrosse tryouts are on Thursday,” Isaac says as he tries to fit yet another bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “We'll be back in time for weapons training though.”

"Lacrosse?" John asks blankly, grimacing at Isaac's eating habits, because _really_ , Isaac eats like a man starved for ten consecutive years. 

Isaac dismissively waves his hand without looking up from his overstuffed breakfast. "Balls. Nets. Sticks. I don't know, ask Stiles. It was his idea." 

The Sheriff spares another second watching Isaac trying, and epically failing, to elegantly chew his food before he turns his exasperated look on to Stiles with his eyebrow raised in question. 

"The whole town is crazy about it," Stiles shrugs. "We'll blend in." 

"Despite never playing it in your life?" Erica refutes with a disdainful sniff. 

"We're quick studies," Stiles grins. "We'll have it down pat in time for Thursday." 

Erica rolls her eyes and wraps her hands around her coffee mug. 

"What are you playing?" The Sheriff asks Erica minutes later, at last relieved, and a little awed, that Isaac has managed to eat his sandwich without choking to death. 

"Well, I would be playing lacrosse too," Erica huffs, brows furrowed in annoyance. She places her mug back onto the table with a thump and crosses her arms over her chest. "Except that they don't _have_ a women's lacrosse team. Can you even believe it, dad? It's like the whole place is stuck in the _twentieth_ _century_. The only sports they offer for girls are things like tennis, swimming, _badminton_ and soccer." 

She throws her hands up in frustration, "Freaking _soccer!_ " 

There's a long standing tradition of antagonism between Erica and soccer, no one quite knows why, they just know not to question it.

The Sheriff merely hums in commiseration, dropping a hand on the crown of her head, "We'll find you something kiddo." 

Breakfast continues in a similar vein, the kids being content with just the fact that their father is actually present. They know that it's probably only because it's their first day at school, since usually their father would be preoccupied with police or hunting business without respite. 

"The Argents are coming by for dinner this Friday," John announces towards the end of breakfast, his eyes flickering to the wall clock quickly before returning to the three wary, disgruntled expressions in front of him.

"Oh, don't look at me like that,” he sighs. “You know we have to." 

 _Hunting is all about politics;_ their father had once told them _. It's tradition and politics, that's it. You abide by the rules and by the code and you're civil to other hunters. Do that kids, and you're golden._

The Argents are different though. They're the raging pariahs of the hunting world, the outsiders in this modern century with their discomforting methods and unshakeable belief, but they're also one of the most proficient hunting families, just after the Stilinskis. It's no secret the great antagonism that exists between the two families; they haven't had to cross paths for years, not until now that they are both situated in Beacon Hills. 

In true form, the Stilinskis should be going to the Argents' for dinner since the Argents were here a good two months before them, arriving in the blazing heat of the summer. But the Stilinskis are a better calibre of hunters, Stiles thinks. Their dynasty is certainly larger, more powerful, better organised and a lot less insane.

So it's a great display of power that the Argents are coming to them instead.

The rest of breakfast passes quickly in a strange cacophony of stony silence as each of the Stilinkis process their individual dislike of the Argents.

All too soon the time for school approaches, so they get up and dump their dishes in the sink as the Sheriff picks up the newspaper once more and says, "Remember the rules."

They all grunt their agreement, and the Sheriff must take note of their absent replies because he then prompts: "Erica?" 

"No weapons," she huffs, rolling her eyes even as she drops a peck on her father's cheek and slinks out of the house. 

"Isaac?" John begins, but then he catches sight of Isaac chugging down the contents of _John's_ coffee cup, and he sighs grievously as he tries to pull his mug away from his wayward son.

"No violence," Isaac recites, grinning mischievously when the Sheriff finally manages to retrieve his, severely depleted, cup of coffee.  

"And no hunting talk," Stiles says before John can even turn to him, dropping a hand on his father’s shoulder. "I know, dad." 

He's about to follow Isaac out of the door when his father's voice reaches him again.

"Stiles?" John says, Stiles stops and turns to him. "You and Erica, you look after your brother, you hear me?"

Isaac has never been good with change, ever since their mom’s passing and their constant moving. While he looked at ease this morning, there's really no way to garner his reaction to moving _yet_ _again_. Stiles nods gravely in response to his father and happily salutes him before he begins to walk out of the kitchen.

"I always do, Daddy-o." 

- 

When Stiles gets outside, Erica is in the passenger seat with her earphones, already blocking out her brothers with her nose stuck firmly in a book, a dusty old tome she’d found in one of the boxes when they began to unpack.

Isaac stands near the back of the jeep, peering down the street with a curious look on his face, eyebrows crinkled in concentration as he stares intently at something. Stiles cuffs him around the head to snap him out of his trance, forever annoyed that Isaac is slightly taller than he is despite being two years younger than Stiles. 

"What're you looking at?" Stiles says before he circles around him to get to the driver's side. "School waits for no man. Or woman." 

Beacon Hills High School is pretty much like any other school that they have ever been in, a looming presence of doom and gloom with gawking clusters of students milling around and catching up after a long summer.

Stiles supposes that he should feel lucky that their father even managed to move them here in time for the start of the school year, it makes it easier for them to fit in seamlessly, without causing a commotion in the general school populace.

Their father has been planning this move for months, Stiles knows, going so far as to steadily move some of his people into Beacon County in an unassuming gradient, so whatever the hell is happening, Stiles knows it's going to be  _big_. 

The jeep looks ancient beside all the glossy cars in the parking lot. Stiles doesn't mind and he still thinks the world of his Roscoe, but it's causing everyone one within radius to stare at them as they clunk and sputter their way to a stop. 

The Stilinskis are old money, influential in the right circles, lethal in the rest, but they also have a persona to upkeep in polite company, hence the modest house they bought and Stiles' practical jeep. Like a real all-American family - totally and completely harmless.

It's not so much the jeep, Stiles knows, that's causing the sudden interest amongst the crowd but rather the three strange new faces contained within it. 

They get out as a collective and Stiles instantly situates himself between the twins. He knows what they look like: confident, smug and comfortable. They'll be spinning the gossip mills for weeks to come.

It's something their father always tells them to play down, and of course it's something they always make sure they play _up_.

 _Mystery and intrigue never hurt anyone_ , Stiles thinks as he runs his fingers through his hair, _might as well have some fun in this dead-ass town_.

"Is that Allison?" Erica asks and her brothers turn to where she's looking.

Allison is standing by the wayside, paused right in the middle of exiting her car and staring at them in mild surprise. After all, they had known of each other’s arrival. 

"A Volvo?" Erica smirks. "How very _Twilight_ of her." 

"You're just jealous because you can't drive," Isaac rebukes and nobody refutes the statement. Erica merely shrugs and makes an acknowledging noise in the back of her throat; it's true and she knows it. 

They must probably look like a group of Russian Dolls as they stand there watching Allison close the door of her car, with Erica's small stature at the forefront and Isaac's behemoth height at the back, and no one has ever accused the Stilinskis of being subtle or good-natured.

So, of course all three of them raise their right hands in sardonic waves when Stiles sighs happily and says, "Smile and wave, kids, smile and _wave_."

Being a total asshole is completely worth it for the way that Allison tosses her short brown hair over her shoulder in annoyance and heads towards the entrance of the school, completely and utterly blanking them as she breezes past. 

"That was mean," Isaac comments seconds after she disappears into the crowd, his mouth scrunching in distaste. "And everyone's looking at us now." 

Stiles adjusts his backpack and throws one hand over each of his siblings' shoulders as he guides them to the steps leading up to the school. 

"Aw, c'mon, it's _Allison_. She can handle it," Stiles grins, bright and wide. "And Isaac, kid, people are looking at us because we're just _that_ cool. Own it." 

Stiles pointedly ignores how both Isaac and Erica roll their eyes to the heavens and back with exasperation.

It's _fond_ exasperation though, Stiles thinks. Definitely fond.

-


	2. Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> I deleted this chapter because the mistakes were so freaking cringe-worthy! That I had to start over, I'm really sorry. I'm feeling a little woozy and sick so I'm sorry if this is a really shit chapter.  
> I haven't actually played Capoeira in years so forgive me any mistakes I make! I do link a video to it within the fic but it's more an artistic portrayal of the sport but whatevs it's a beautiful sport! :) You should really watch it, it's entrancing!  
> I've also worked out the story out line and it should amount to 13 chapters but y'know, it's subject to change depending on how much I write :)

 A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended.

**Ian McEwan**

**-**

Stiles is already completely underwhelmed by his new high school by the time that lunch rolls around. It disheartens him to see that this school is pretty much the exact same as every other he's ever been in - full of blank-faced teachers pretending to be glad at the prospect of trailing after teenaged delinquents for the remainder of the next year, and those very same teenaged delinquents rushing around like the world is a glass globe that fits neatly into the palm of their hands.  

He doesn’t even have his siblings or his old friends to diffuse the monotony of the day, but he grumbles on regardless, ignoring everything and smirking with a feigned indifference.

He does smile brightly at the haggard lunch lady though, despite the fact that she looks like she's ready to assault every single teenager that walks her way, and he’s actually kind of surprised to see a flicker of a returned smile on her tired face.

He bypasses the empty tables in the cafeteria as he hunts for a seat and tries his best to ignore the gazes of everyone around him, fixed on him as if he were an animal in a zoo. The attention doesn't bother him, it's just that the attention he does usually get serves a specific _purpose_ ; it's one of his father's hunters when he's training, or a group of supernatural beings trying kill him.

This kind of attention seems redundant to Stiles; these kids have too much time on their hands and too little a space to explore it in, so they wander around aimlessly, not really seeing what's in front of them. 

There's absolutely no question as to why doesn’t even consider the table tucked into the corner where Allison is sitting, with her legs crossed on her chair and her earphones already plugged in. She looks up as he walks in her direction and he belatedly realises that it must seem like he's actually daring to approach her.

So he immediately changes trajectory and slinks into the seat closest to him, sitting opposite the sandy-haired kid he had seen in his chemistry class earlier that morning, with his green eyes and the mottled fair freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.

“Howdy,” Stiles grins brightly, and he only feels a little mean as he watches the kid startle, his muscles tensing and locking as his gaze flickers to Stiles. “It’s Greenberg, right?”

The kid stares at him, wide-eyed and mid-chew, long enough that Stiles looks around and wonders if he's just usurped somebody else’s seat. But he hadn’t even seen the kid speak to anyone else all morning. The only reason that Stiles knows that he _can_ speak is because heard his voice during roll-call in class and even then he'd barely grunted his attendance before curling in on himself and ignoring everybody. 

“Did I just take your friend’s seat?” Stiles asks as he uncaps the minuscule bottle of water on his tray. It's not like he's planning to move, even if he has taken someone else’s seat, but he figures it’s the polite thing to say in any case.

“No, um. You haven’t," Greenberg says and he resumes his chewing once more, casting furtive glances in Stiles’ direction. "That's me though. Greenberg. That's-. I'm Greenerg. I’m just _surprised_ you sat here, I guess."

Greenberg doesn’t offer anything more in terms of conversation. He quickly falls quiet and Stiles fidgets; he hates uncomfortable silences with an unmitigated passion, and he's never been able to deal with the sense of listlessness that seems to pervade the whole thing. 

"What's your first name?"

“Joshua,” the kid replies; he smiles tentatively and relaxes slightly, doing an awkward wave when he’s sure Stiles hasn’t made the wrong turn and accidentally sat on his table. "I'm Joshua. Hi."

“Joshua. I like that better than Greenberg," Stiles nods with grin. "More personable you know? I'm-"

“Stiles,” Joshua interjects, and he flushes a little at the flutter of mild surprise across Stiles' face. “I already know.”

The news of the four new students at Beacon Hills had spread through the school faster than even Stiles had anticipated, and many a whisper of the tumultuous relationship between the siblings and Allison had only been further fuelled by Stiles pausing by her locker as he made his way to his second period class earlier that morning.

“Allie,” he'd beamed with a facetious cheeriness, despite the fact that he'd been a complete asshole towards her that very same morning. He'd slammed a forearm against the metal locker beside her, leaned in on the balls of his feet and grinned. "How you doing?"

“Przemysław,” she had eventually greeted, not even bothering to disguise her displeasure at his presence nor look up from her locker as she placed her new textbooks in it. Stiles had always resented how she was able to perfectly intone his given name, a feat gone unconquered by many.

His brows had furrowed in annoyance and he had muttered, “I’ve told you not to call me that. Call me Stiles. My name is _Stiles_.”

“I’ll call you Stiles when you stop calling me Allie, _Przemysław_.”

For the briefest second Stiles had a glimpse of the person that she used to be, back when they were children and she actually liked being called Allie and she had been the closest thing to a best friend that Stiles had ever had. But the look was gone in the space of a heartbeat, quick as a blink, and Stiles was left feeling gauche and inadequate.

He had screwed his mouth to the side and asked, “On a scale of one to ten, how angry is your dad over the fact that you guys have to come to us for dinner?”

“On a scale of one to ten,” Allison repeats her voice light and mocking, almost drowned under the resounding thud of her slamming her locker closed, “How much do you think I want to punch you in the face right now?”

Then she had turned on her heel without further ado and sauntered down the hall, not even looking back, leaving Stiles standing beside her locker and giving two miserable thumbs up to her retreating back, mumbling, “Good talk, Allison, that’s … yeah. _Good talk_.”

Now though, Stiles simply smiles at Joshua and the way that his cheeks flush a darker red in his embarrassment when he realises that the attention most of the students in the cafeteria is now centred on them.

He can hear his siblings bicker as they approach the table; he can pick out their voices in a crowd even when his attention is on other things. _Specialism in Biometrics_ was one of the first things that Stiles learned when he was ten, the official starting age of the hunter regime in his family. His father had a very different approach to training as opposed to other hunting families - he made sure that his children had as much of an extensive education on analytical strategy as they did in fighting. 

Joshua is in the middle of a sentence when Erica slams her red tray on the seat beside him and sits with a heavy huff, her curls falling haphazardly in a tumble around her shoulders.

“Shut up," she hisses, her brown eyes squinting in aggravation somewhere beyond Stiles' shoulder. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Isaac replies lightly and he casually slides into the seat next to Stiles. “Because that’s not going to happen.”

“Your _face_ is unfortunate, Isaac,” Erica retaliates as she furiously stabs her fork into the golden pile of curly fries taking centre stage on her plate.

Joshua looks overwhelmed by the acquisition of two more new people at his table. He looks terrified actually, as he glances around self-consciously at the murmurs of intrigue that ebb across the cafeteria and curls around the four of them at the table.

Erica pauses just before she looks to her right, seemingly only just realising that Joshua is occupying the seat next to her. 

She smiles warmly through her confusion, "Hi." 

“Joshua," Stiles says, hearing the kid's shy, mumbling reply and taking pity on him. "Meet my idiot siblings,” he says, gesturing to each of them. “This is Erica and this is Isaac. Guys, this is Joshua.” 

All the tension seems to seep out of Joshua’s shoulders at Stiles’ words. He grins abashedly at the twins and loosens up during the course of lunch enough to merge easily into the ensuing conversation with them, talking about everything and nothing.

Joshua is actually pretty funny when he gets past the shyness, with plenty of dry wit on the tip of his tongue ready for a solid rebuke at a moment's notice, making Stiles snort gracelessly as Erica reddens in embarrassment.

Later, as the remains of their food lie on their trays and they are all slouching towards each other in their chairs, Joshua pauses, stricken with a thought.

"Wait, wait," he says, eyed squinting in confusion. "Why are you called Stiles but Erica and Isaac don't go by nicknames?" 

"That's because they're adopted," Stiles says immediately, and it takes a little discipline to not just laugh at the utter mortification that falters into Joshua's expression for a brief second. 

"Shut up," Erica throws one her curly fries at him, looking annoyed when Stiles catches it neatly between his teeth and chews it with delighted gusto. Erica merely rolls her eyes before she turns back to Joshua. "We're not adopted. Stiles just has a freaky-assed name and he doesn't like anyone calling him it." 

"It's Polish," Isaac supplies as he leans forward to place his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. "It comes from somewhere in the family tree but it's pretty hard to pronounce, so everyone just calls him Stiles. Erica and I were named from our Mom's side of the family." 

"Oh," Joshua nods in understanding and runs his fingers through his brown hair, the awkwardness in his face quickly replaced with ease. “Makes sense.”

"I told Isaac he was adopted when he was thirteen," Stiles says and he smirks when Isaac's cheeks turn a fiery red. "He cried for a solid week." 

Well, Stiles supposes that ' _tell'_ is a bit of an understatement ... rather he had forged fake adoption certificates and photo-shopped baby photos of Isaac and Erica onto brochures of adoption agencies and showed them to his kid brother as 'proof'. It had taken the Sheriff three days and plenty of home videos to prove to Isaac that he wasn't actually adopted.

Stiles had gotten in _so_ much trouble for that, and Isaac hadn't spoken to him for a month after he found out, but Stiles still considers that particular prank amongst his best work. But obviously he can’t tell Joshua that, which is a shame really.  

The group disbands minutes later as the bell rings its woeful tone across the school and they head to their classes. Joshua isn't in any of Stiles' classes that afternoon but by pure inescapable luck, Stiles manages to sit next to his intellectual soul-mate.

He finds him towards the far middle of Finstock's economics class. With his face screwed up in concentration as he doodles on the first page of his blank notebook, Scott McCall is the curly haired dork of Stiles' dreams.

They sit in their own little cove in the middle of their Economics class talking about video games and pretty much ignoring everyone, giggling like middle-schoolers at each of the student caricatures that Scott draws. 

Scott is smart, and kind and bashful, but he’s not particularly attentive; his cheeks flare in embarrassment under his tan complexion as Finstock calls him out in the middle of class, just as Scott is in the middle of whispering the recent history of Beaconian civility to Stiles.

It takes him a little while to solve and complete the equation, a lot longer than it would have taken Stiles, but his cheeks puff out in chuffed happiness when Finstock reluctantly praises his ability to not be a _‘complete idiot all of the time, McCall. I like this new you, I like it!’_

Scott is a fountain of information, Stiles finds. Within the hour, he already has the basic hierarchical structure in the school and all of the most pertinent hearsay. Knowing about the people around him is always a good thing, but he does find himself genuinely liking Scott.

Scott's an outsider - one who only moved to Beacon Hills some two years prior and never really managed to make a connection with anyone here. He doesn’t tell Stiles this, but it’s more than obvious in the lonely way he holds himself, a way that is as intimately familiar to Stiles as his own hand.

Stiles wishes he had someone like Scott when he was growing up; it would have made things a hell of a lot more different.

He wishes that a lot of things could have been different in his life, but Stiles doesn’t quite believe he’s good enough of a person to wish for something like that. But he doesn't dwell on it; instead, he shakes off the pervading melancholy and he smiles at Scott.

-

The clouds are slowly rolling into the salmon dusting of the sky as early dusk falls over Beacon Hills when the Jeep enters the forest. This time, the preserve is far from quiet; birds flitter from tree to tree and sing in loud quips as small animals furrow further into their bays in fear of the crunching black tires of the jeep.

They’re on the hunt for Isaac’s lost arrow, the one he had fired into the tree, not so much because they're afraid of the arrow being linked to them but rather for Isaac’s own state of mind. 

They’ve been walking in half circles for about a half hour when a looming presence appears in front of them. It’s a huge house, or the remainder of it in any case, a large three-storied home burned down to its ashes and brought half up again in misery and grief.

The front remains intact, but Stiles can see black charred pieces hanging off the dilapidated skeleton making up the back, like the house is making a last desperate attempt at hanging on to the remnants of its former grandeur.

It’s the saddest thing that he's ever seen.

Stiles hears footsteps tracking over the soft ground of the forest as they gaze upon the house, if it can even be called that anymore, and he turns around. From the very periphery of the clearing comes a man; he’s tall and robust and his feet collide with the ground in hard, angry paces that make a lot less noise than they should.

Stiles can feel the twins turn around where they stand to his left, but his attention is irrevocably attuned to the man, a werewolf Stiles is sure, sheathed in all black everything and a leather jacket. 

He looks young, maybe quite a few years older than Stiles is, but still young by any standard and his menacing disposition is not at all deterred by the way that the too-long sleeves of his jacket flap awkwardly over his hands.

“What are you doing here? Huh?” he says, his light lilt curling over the gruffness of his voice. “This is private property.”

He stops some four yards away from the trio and holds himself tightly, hands curling by his side. His eyes are pale, like the colour of a clear ocean, and his gaze flickers across each of them. He looks angry but Stiles isn’t too sure that he realises that they’re hunters yet, given by the way he hasn’t flung himself at them in a vicious attack.

Stiles' gun feels heavy and solid tucked into the waistband of his jeans - they'd stopped briefly at their house to collect their guns and for Erica to change into a pair of sweatpants - but Stiles is careful not to make movements that’ll draw attention to it, or more dangerously, allow for the scent of the wolfsbane-laced bullets to reach their newest companion.

“Sorry mister,” Erica says from beside Stiles. She doesn’t dare step forward, but she smiles a little and gracefully shrugs a shoulder, skirting around the truth with deft skill. “We didn’t know. We’re just looking for something my brother lost.”

Stiles is pretty sure that this guy isn’t the rogue one they encountered last night; he seems to have far more control over his body than any of the feral wolves Stiles has ever seen. This guy though, he seems to be harbouring a lot more tempestuous control than would merit a seasoned werewolf.

Stiles' mind works at an astounding speed as he watches the man - he thinks of the fight between the two wolves last night and his breath hitches in the back of his throat as realisation dawns. The stranger's eyes snap to him immediately and Stiles feels a frisson of fear run through his body at the sheer intensity of the look.

When the stranger's gaze shifts, long moments later, and he begins to tell them in precise, clipped tones just how fast they should get the hell off of his property, Isaac makes a subtle movement on the far side of the loose semi-circle they've formed.

The Stilinskis used to play a lot of charades when they were younger, games that would last for hours and hours on the lonely nights their parents hunted the latest monster of the week. It was his mom’s idea at first, to develop her children’s affinity for charades into a sort of coded language that was only known to them. It’s worked well in the intervening years; Claudia was smart and cunning, and since her death it’s been another way in which the three of them can remember their mother.

Isaac doesn't make eye contact with Stiles as he smoothes his fingers over his left eyebrow in a quick, deliberated movement. He inclines his head slightly towards the stranger before he smears the pad of his thumb clear across his lips and then back again. Isaac waits a second before he glances up at Stiles to ensure his message is received.

 _I’ve seen this man before;_ is what he mimes. Stiles looks back at the man and his heartbeat kicks up in apprehension when he sees the stranger’s gaze shift from Isaac's hands to Stiles, even as he continues to speak.

Stiles unconsciously settles into his defensive stance; he doesn’t even realise he’s done it until his siblings mirror his position. The man though doesn’t even seem fazed by their stance and the trio find themselves staring at him in mild shock when Isaac’s arrow, broken in two distinct halves, slides from the inside of his sleeve and into his hand.

Clearly, this stranger seems to know more about them than he'd initially let on.

He throws the remnants of it at their feet and tucks his hands into his pockets; his eyes flash a vibrant, acerbic _scarlet_ in defiant arrogance and Stiles is pointing his gun at him before he even registers the fact that his finger is curling over the trigger. He takes half a step forward in front of his siblings, and from the edges of his vision he can see his siblings holding their guns too.

The werewolf barely spares them a single glance, though his nostrils flare as he catches the scent of wolfsbane coming from the three guns pulled on him, before the man turns his back on them and disappears back into the forest without so much as a word.

“Cocky fucker,” Stiles mutters as he lowers his gun. 

He hurriedly herds his siblings back the way they first came and back to the the jeep. They don’t speak at all during the drive home; Stiles presses his foot down hard on the accelerator and they watch their new town whizz by in blurs and shapes in the windows, each caught in their own distinctive thoughts. They clamber out of the jeep and vexation curls around the inside of Stiles’ skin in a mess.

“Combat training,” he says, and he loosens his jaw from the hard grit he had it in. “Grab what we need from the basement and I’ll meet you out in the backyard in a few.”

Within ten minutes, they’re huddled in the backyard, various training weapons brought out from the basement, and placed under the shade of the wide canopy of the laurel tree in the backyard, hidden from prying eyes. 

They stand barefoot in a huddle, wrapping soft, white cotton strips around their knuckles as they breathe in the cooling air. 

“You know who that was back at the forest, right?” Erica says, looking from brother to brother. She rolls her eyes at them/ “Guys, _come_ on, it was Derek Hale.”

“Derek Hale?” Isaac repeats in his surprise, staring at his sister. “As in _the_  Derek Hale?”

“Yeah,” Erica says. “ _The_ Derek Hale from _those_ Hales.”

“Wow,” Isaac catches Stiles' eye and winces in commiseration.

Everyone in the hunting circles knows of the Hales, and more precisely how they were massacred in their own home despite being model werewolves, intergrating seamlessly with humankind. And everybody in the higher hunting families has a fairly good idea as to precisely _who_ had engineered their demise.

Hunters aren't as easily fooled as the police authorities, but they can't well start accusing without proof. Derek and Laura Hale had disappeared soon after and began emerging here and there in various populous cities across the country, never causing any trouble. Stiles had overheard his father saying how they carried with them an air of ashen grief more than once. 

“So, what do you think is up with the bodies in the woods?” Isaac asks.

“He probably did it,” Stiles says breezily. “I mean, did you see his eyes? He looked like a fucking serial killer. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

Stiles focuses his attention on the scenery just beyond the edge of the backyard where the back trails of the running park starts; he thinks he sees the ghost of a movement in the dense tree line and he smirks. Werewolves and predictability go hand in hand.

"Serial killer or not," Erica says, "can it just not be our problem for today? I'd rather just practice." 

Isaac sets up the sound system and plops down next to it, stretching his legs out lazily before he briefly turns his face towards the coming dusk. “[Capoeira](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8xxgFpK-NM)?”

Erica nods absently at him as she ties her long blonde curls into a tight bun at the crown of her head, clipping loose tendrils back with flaxen-coloured hair grips as she stands in front of Stiles on the thick dark mat in the middle of their garden. 

Stiles shakes his limbs loose and stands ready and waiting in front of his sister. He shrugs, he's totally got this. Isaac presses the play button and the entire mood alters; electric tension fires up the stratosphere with adrenaline and a little more than playful rivalry. 

The heavy, twanging notes of the _berimbau_ filter out into the darkening sky as Stiles and Erica begin to move into the base position.

It's subtle at first, the _[ginga](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Ginga_de_dos.gif) -_  slow shifts of legs as they cross behind him in wide paces in direct opposition to Erica, keeping him in constant movement, swinging from side to side like a performer. His arms cut through the air in simple, soft streaks and when he catches his sister's eyes, she smiles in anticipation.

They move into handstands simultaneously, facing each other with their knees tucked in close to their bellies, it's so familiar to them, the _Capoeira_ , that the movements have become an innate part of them.

Stiles feels the music pump through his skin as surely as the blood in his veins, feeling heady and warm and making him bristle with excitement. They fall to the left with easy grace, moulding into the position of the _ginga_ once again as the music changes pace, turning slower as the base notes puncture through the silence of the air in spaced beats. 

They move like water, he and Erica, intricate and fluid, working in perfect tandem. 

Their hands curl around each other, not quite touching but an act of kind sportsmanship nevertheless.

Erica sweeps her leg in an arc above Stiles' head; he dips and that's when they begin to spar in earnest. They keep close together, working like a puzzle, each movement fitting in with the other - one curls low to the ground and the other shifts above them in lean muscle and flighty, nimble steps.

They never break out of the base position either, using it to create momentum as they breathe the spirit of the sport into their skin and they move like living pieces of art. 

They dance around each other, teasing movements that hint at the power that lies within their limbs but with a familiarity that is distinctively theirs.

Stiles contorts his body, leveraging himself on a single hand as he flips backward and turns himself around Erica with his hand firmly placed on the mat before she sweeps his hand away with her leg; he roundhouses a kick over her tucked body and she flows with the movement, jumping over him and landing gracefully before she moves on and then the music drops. 

The beats start coming in faster now, with a tempo that's underscored by smooth percussions. 

Erica back-flips over Stiles, who tucks down under her just as fluidly, before they’re standing back to back and then she slides her body under his legs, coming out of the other side, bending backwards at the waist and kicking Stiles in the chest in playful challenge before she pulls his calves forward a little to unbalance him. 

He falls back on his hands and they sweep at each other's legs as they crouch back into the _ginga_ and then Erica is laughing, loud and mischievous.

The pace of the exercise becomes more arduous then and Stiles' heart rate picks up. He flips his body over Erica's, but then they move back instinctively into a handstand, echoing their earlier positions.

Erica sticks her tongue out at Stiles as they stretch their legs and he rolls his eyes even as he tries to ignore the sweat trails that have suddenly begun to run the wrong way.

Erica is fast, as nimble as a cat, quick and wily. Stiles hardly sees her move but all of a sudden she slips out of her handstand, moves forward in one refined move and she's landing a soft punch to his stomach. 

He recoils instantly through sheer shock and she moves back a little to let him settle into base; their hands are curled around each other again, ready for round two. Erica watches him and with that _look_ in her eyes, and Stiles knows that his baby sister is going to kick his ass. 

She smirks and then they're moving, their bodies creating swift sounds that carry across the atmosphere as they cut through the air; they curl and soar into the air performing high kicks and flips and acrobatics like they were born in the very movements, the movements being as familiar to them as breathing.

Erica leaps into the air, twisting her body clear above Stiles’ head before she settles back into the _ginga_ without so much as a pause and they start kicking roundhouses at each other with barely a second of lapse between each. They work in a way that doesn’t actually create impact but rather they move together, like the inner machinations of a clock. 

They’re moving so quickly that it’s almost a blur, only vague shapes of human bodies snapping through the air with crisp movements swirling across the dark mat. Stiles doesn’t even register the music anymore, it moves through him, like it’s a living part of him. They kick and avoid each other expertly for long, thrilling minutes and Stiles is distantly aware of his little brother clapping along to the music as he watches his siblings spar.

Stiles and Erica move from roundhouses, to crouching sweeps to high jumping kicks to alleviate the repetitiveness of the exercise before they move back into the roundhouses, going for it in earnest, moving fast in their expertise.

He’s so focused on the swiftness of his kicks that when Erica suddenly pauses in her kick and quickly changes direction, it’s a shock that costs him dearly. Her knee knocks straight into his side and she crouches to the ground using her hands to support her as she hovers in wide arc and kicks Stiles’ legs from under him.

He goes tumbling down to the floor like a pile of bricks, his breath leaving him entirely even as Erica flips into an elegant stand above him and smirks.

-

Erica eventually kicks him off the mat and he reluctantly leaves, letting his brother take his place as Stiles heads back into the house.

Stiles’ cheeks are flushed red with exertion and his shirt clings to his skin in damp swathes, the sweat misting across his skin. He heads straight to his wardrobe when he closes his bedroom door, dodging the piles of boxes that still litter one side of his room, before he leans in to root for some fresh clothes.

Stiles sees the light shift on the wardrobe door next to him, growing darker and lighter in fast fluid movements as something moves past his window and he smirks, “You’ve got five minutes.”

He doesn’t get a response, but he wasn’t really expecting one. His room is quiet in the stillness of Beacon Hills; he can barely hear the wafting sounds of music drifting from the backyard, even with his window wide open.

He isn’t at all surprised when he turns around, with a clean shirt and shorts in hand, to see the newly turned Alpha standing just inside his window, filling out the spaces in between and blocking the light with his musculature.

Stiles traps his tongue between his teeth and he smiles, “You look like thunder.”

The man, Derek, stands glowering at Stiles with an unfocused abhorrence; tension vibrates under the skin of his broad shoulders, rippling over the muscles of his wide chest and his jean-clad thighs.  

“Seriously man,” Stiles says as he expediently ignores how fear boils low in his gut. “I’m sweaty and I just really want to shower.”

"You're awful cocky for someone who just got his ass handed to him by his little sister." 

"You're awful cocky for someone who's just walked in to a hunter's house," Stiles retorts.

Derek's every movement is controlled, deft, and powerful as he steps forward. Stiles has enough self-awareness to admit that he's scared.

There is a bona-fide werewolf standing in his room, approaching him and there is every single chance that Derek could kill him, so of _course_ he’s scared. He's not an idiot and the hard glint in Derek's eye certainly suggests that Derek would like nothing better than to present Stiles’ head on a stick.

But Stiles isn’t afraid of death anymore, not as much as he should be, so he tucks the paralytic fear far away and he focuses on the situation in front of him.

“Just so you know,” Stiles says, aiming for nonchalant. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He knows that Derek can probably smell the waves of fear rolling off of him but Stiles also knows where his closest weapons are, so he mentally calculates how much mauling he’d undergo before he actually reached them.

"Why are you here?" Derek asks, towering in front of Stiles like a mountain, all hard edges and tall grace. 

"I live here," Stiles says absent-mindedly. He has a theory; he can either reach the bronze-gilded knife that's hidden beneath the mess somewhere on his desk, or the baseball bat infused with Northern Blue Monkshood by his bed. That way, he can land a blow, tie the grumpy fucker up and then call his dad.

"What are you _doing_ ," Derek enunciates with hard-edged annoyance, "in Beacon Hills?"

Stiles shifts his focus to Derek, even as his hand reaches back into his closet, searching, when he remembers one of the hiding places he has for his knives. “I'm not privy to my father's investigations."

"Just because you're not privy doesn't mean that you don't know." 

"Well, aren't you a smart cookie," Stiles grins, quirks his eyebrows. "Huh, big guy?" 

False bravado has always been his thing, a way of distracting the opponent. It makes them buy into the act that Stiles is nothing more than a privileged brat riding on the wave of his father’s notoriety, it helps people underestimate exactly what he’s capable of.

“I _could_ just kill you.”

“Do you even know who my father is?” Stiles asks and he lifts his chin, Derek isn’t that much taller than he is; wider yes, but not as nimble. “You’d be dead within a week.”

“Your father doesn’t know I’m here," Derek says, snarls it more than anything. "And you’d still be dead.”

“Wow; just-. Alpha _really_ suits you, doesn’t it,” Stiles mutters. “Tell me is the arrogance a werewolf thing, or just a _you_ thing? Because if you think that my dad doesn’t know you’re in town, then you’re really stupid and I feel sorry for you.”

Stiles curls his hand around the silver edge of the small dagger he keeps in the breast pocket of one of his coats. He begins to pull it out slowly, as he and Derek stare at each other in challenge, he’s pretty sure that Derek knows exactly what he’s doing but he’ll be damned if he’ll go down without a fight.

He hears Isaac clatter onto the bottom step at the same exact time Derek does, and they both whip their focus to Stiles’ closed door. Stiles pulls out his knife and turns so as to stand in the way of the door, glancing back quickly to make sure that he actually did close the door, there’s no way he’s letting this guy get anywhere _near_ his brother.

But by the time Stiles turns back towards the other man, all that’s left of Derek is the open window and the low remaining echo of his growl.

When Isaac crashes into the door of Stiles’ bedroom, Stiles has closed the window, he's tucked his knife away and is pretending to rifle through the rack of his disorganised clothes.

“Hey,” Isaac grins, breathless and ruddy cheeked. “Wanna play another round?” 

Stiles smiles at him, "Sure." 

- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this is more of a filler chapter than anything but trust me, it'll pick up soon! You'll see, hope you stay with me! Thank you :)


	3. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a long time coming! I know, I'm super sorry! On the brightside, I've got most of the plot worked out! And a few of the later chapters already drafted out! (It's probably going to be longer than 13 chapters)  
> I have finals this week so I wouldn't expect nothing else from me for a little while. But I plan on doing some writing on the train back home as well as, of course, utilising my winter break to this :)  
> Man, this season completely jossed EVERYTHING, but who cares it's an AU right? :)

O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering.

**John Keats**

-

Stiles doesn't really want to think about why he doesn't tell his siblings about Derek Hale's friendly neighbourhood visit.

He resolutely does not want think about it, because thinking about that would, of course, lead to thoughts about precisely why he has snuck into his father's office and is in the current process of looping the videotape from the security cameras outside. 

It’s not like Stiles hasn’t ever lied to his brother and sister before, because he has, _plenty_ of times - in much more trivial and much less important situations. Stiles is a lot of things, but being a good and honest member of his family is not likely to be in his repertoire.

He loves them all to death, of course he does, but Stiles isn’t particularly considerate about the people around him, and he never has been. Which is why he occasionally lies to his father, and pokes his nose into things he has no business attending to and why he drags his siblings into the middle of the woods, with a monster on the loose, when one has a serious medical condition and the other is not known to have a solid handle on his violent tendencies.

So, lying to his family is nothing new to Stiles, but this feels different. Even though it isn’t, even though it’s more of an omission of truth rather than an outright lie.

He’s curious though, of this Derek Hale.

That’s the only way that Stiles can properly categorise this, because he’s not doing this to protect the man or whatever, Stiles is just doing this because he’s … curious.

He’s interested.

It’s peculiar, but Derek seems just as confused as Stiles is about the sudden symposium of hunters congregating in Beacon County, and Stiles has an inkling that Derek doesn't actually want to kill him ...  _yet_ in any case.

So of course, Stiles plans to use the werewolf's little impromptu visit to his advantage, but he's not stupid enough to drag his siblings into this thing. If he fucks up, which he likely will given his track record, the consequences will lie on his head rather than theirs.

He finally finds the correct video file some ten minutes later, and his eyes flicker over to the door of his father’s study to make sure that he’s truly alone. Both of his siblings are downstairs though; he can hear Erica puttering about in the kitchen and Isaac in the living room watching one of those mindless reality television shows that he insists on.

“Their lives are nearly as fucked up as ours,” Isaac had told him once, eyes glued to the screen with gluttonous glee as some Z-list celebrity or another cried in a Ferrari.

Stiles spends a few scant seconds waiting silently, making absolutely sure that nobody is coming up the stairs; his heart pounds heavily within his chest cavity, and his mouth feels dry all of a sudden.

He knows, he just _knows_ , that if he ever gets found out the wrath that’ll come his way will likely take all of Beacon County down with it. An angry Sheriff is not one Stiles is willing to re-encounter.

He watches Derek on the computer screen, an intermittent shadow at the periphery of each camera angle. Derek’s pretty good at assimilating himself into the background, Stiles has to admit.

For all their natural stealth, Stiles has found that leather-clad creatures of the night are not particularly diligent in protecting themselves from modern technology, which is kind of a good thing, he thinks, when approximately ninety-eight percent of said creatures of the night actively want to kill him. 

Derek, however, is very good at staying hidden. Stiles doesn’t think he would have even noticed him lurking behind the foliage of the trees if he wasn’t specifically looking for it.  

He goes over it frame by frame, cropping Derek out of the picture and integrating previous footage (sans a douchetastic werewolf in the background) and layering it over this one. He edits the minute changes in lighting and colour, and hopes to all that is good and holy that his father won’t notice should he ever posses the need to look at this particular video.

At this point, Stiles is just glad that his father could be easily persuaded (read: annoyed into submission by the sheer power of three teenaged Stilinskis) to go with a much more basic home security system. Granted, their system is much more sophisticated than that of the general civility, but it’s nowhere near as encroaching as some systems used by hunters that he’s seen.

Take his buddy Eliot in Minneapolis; his father installed a system that detects and catalogues abnormal body heat, those both colder and much warmer than the human norm. Not to mention the digitised alert system that sends Eliot’s dad hourly updates of the security footage and general information of the house to an almost impenetrable, almost undetectable virtual cloud.

Point being: Eliot's fucked if he ever wants to rebel.

It takes Stiles over an hour to manipulate the reel, despite the fact that it’s just basically layering compound images over each other.

But he hadn’t realised how long Derek had been perched in the background, watching them. He shivers and curses himself because if Derek had the intention to kill them, he would have done so, easily, and Stiles would never have even seen it coming.

He finds the footage of Derek swinging into his bedroom and decides to just delete the entire thing and loop the video around. There’s just no way to hide that, he thinks, as he replays the video.

He sees Derek jump into his window, all elongated limbs and lithe flexes of his body - like an acrobat, Stiles thinks, a very sexy acrobat.

Stiles hadn’t actually realised how hot he was, being out of wits as one would be with a werewolf frothing in anger standing right in front of you.

It’s that thought however, that reminder that Derek is indeed a _werewolf_  that has Stiles startling out of his stupor. He shakes his head roughly, ridding himself of thoughts of the man’s body, of his thick thighs and broad shoulders, his sharp cheekbones and the tenor of his voice; he rids himself of _all_  that and refuses to think about it, absolutely _refuses_.

Stiles bites his lip, cursing harshly under his breath before he quickly loops the video and quits out of his father’s browser. 

-

They end up sprawled in Erica’s room some two hours later.

There’s food spread haphazardly around Erica where she lies on the bed and half-empty soda bottles dotted around her pea-green and white crochet blanket. She’s flat on her back, head dangling over the edge as she makes faces at Stiles where he’s commandeering the plush armchair next to the window, leg draped casually over the arm and phone in his hands.

Isaac is on his stomach on the floor, five cans of Coca-Cola on one side and a mountain of strawberry granola bar wrappers on the other as he gazes absently at his computer screen.

The movie playing on Erica’s laptop carries on ignored; it’s more of a background noise than anything else and it serves to break up the tedium of dullness that they’re all feeling.

The Sheriff had suggested they continue to unpack when they called him earlier to announce their boredom, his voice crackling over the speakerphone and dulled by the sounds of the busy station. The three of them had, of course, scoffed in disdain and hastily said their goodbyes to their father.

They’ve been sitting in relative quiet for about three quarters of an hour now, and Stiles really has to hand it to his siblings, he genuinely thought that they would crack long before this.

Of course, it’s as soon as Stiles has this thought that a certain look crosses over Isaac’s face. The _look_ , with the minute twitching of his eyebrows and the way that his lips thin before he puckers them, that means he’ll broach the subject any second now.

 “So,” Isaac ventures, not two minutes later. He raises his eyebrows, smacks his lips and says, “Derek Hale.”

“Derek Hale,” repeats Stiles dryly, watching the sly look on his baby brother’s face and quirking an eyebrow of his own.

Erica is already swinging herself upright on the bed, scooting backwards to rest her back against her headboard, “I call campfire.”

Isaac follows eagerly, sitting on Erica’s left and crossing his legs to mirror her position, while Stiles follows at a much more sedate pace.

Once they’re all sat, close together in a huddle on Erica crochet blanket, she levels her brothers with a look.

“Call me sceptical,” she says. “But I don’t think the bodies piling up in this town and the sudden appearance of Broody McBrooderson is just a coincidence.”

“I agree,” Isaac interjects. “Dad’s being very suspicious about this case, he’s being _secretive_.”

Erica rolls her eyes, tipping her head back to thunk against the headboard, “Dad’s always secretive.”

“No, but you see,” Isaac stresses, leaning in towards Erica. “He’s being ridiculously secretive about this guy.”

“You said you saw him before,” Stiles says, and beside him Erica turns inquisitive eyes to their baby brother.

“Who, Dad?”

Stiles smacks the flat of his palm over the top of Isaac’s head, sighs, “ _Hale_ , you jackass.”

Isaac recovers quickly, throwing a heatless glare in Stiles’ direction as he rubs his head.

“I saw him this morning,” he says. “When we were heading out for school.”

Stiles remembers seeing Isaac earlier, squinting at something in the distance, and he groans, “And you didn’t think to tell anyone?”

“I thought he was our neighbour,” Isaac defends hotly. “I don’t usually see someone and automatically think ‘dangerous werewolf out to kill me’, y’know?”

“That’s a fair point,” Erica adds in. “Though, that’s not to mention that he’s an _Alpha_ now; last I heard, he was a Beta.”

“Do you think he killed her?” Isaac asks, biting his lip. “The girl we found?”

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head. A ripple of surprise makes its way across his siblings’ faces. “I don’t think he did.”

“Stiles,” Erica sighs, running her fingers through her curls. “You’re the one who was talking about his _crazy eyes_ earlier, and I’ve got to say, I’m more than inclined to believe you.”

Stiles shakes his head, already jumping up from the bed to grab Erica’s laptop amongst the mess on her desk, her eyes following his movements.

“Listen to me, alright,” he says, ignoring their incredulous expressions. “I did some digging around on dad’s computer earlier and I found the coroner’s report for the body we found.”

Stiles pulls up the Beacon Hills School webpage, glancing up just in time to catch Erica pursing her lips, “And?”

“And the girl, she was a _wolf_ ,” Stiles says, he finds the picture he’s looking for and turns the computer around. “Not just any wolf either, she was _Laura Hale,_ " he stops, regards them each intently before throwing up his hands. "Guys, it was his _sister_.”

“He killed his own sister?” Isaac balks, staring at the grainy graduation picture of Laura Hale, before exchanging a hasty look with Erica. “For what, _power_?”

“I still don’t think he was the one who killed her,” Stiles says, closing the laptop, inching forward.

“And I _still_ don’t understand why you’re changing your mind all of a sudden,” Erica says, brown eyes boring into Stiles’. “Not a few hours ago, you were more than willing to put a bullet in him and call it a day.”

“I’m not changing my mind,” Stiles stresses, rolling his eyes. “I’m evaluating the facts. Remember what Dr. Kloss said last year? A wolf losing a pack member is not like losing family; it’s more than that. It’s like losing a _limb_.”

“Wolves have killed their own before,” Erica points out. “Some have killed their _entire_ packs, what makes Hale so different?”

“It’s not about what makes him different,” Stiles says, setting the laptop down on the floor and clasping his hands in front of him. “But the _body_. Look, Laura Hale’s body showed-”

“No signs of a wolf fight,” Isaac interrupts, looking sheepish at the look of surprise on Stiles’ face. “We saw it, the uh- the body, after you fell over the hill.”

“Right,” says Stiles, swallowing once. He hadn’t wanted his siblings to see the corpse; he licks his lips. “Yeah, the body was meticulous, I mean, if you don’t account for it being dumped in the middle of the woods, of course. But she was cut in _half_ , the wound was straight, it was clean, and it was cauterised which would suggest-”

“Human instruments,” Erica and Isaac chorus looking at each other.

“Exactly,” concludes Stiles. “Ergo, I don’t think Derek killed his sister.”

Isaac’s eyebrows raise, and he looks at Stiles. There’s a pause and then, “Derek?”

Fuck.

“Hale,” Stiles amends quickly, rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. But, I don’t think he killed her.”

“Not in wolf form at least,” Erica says, levelling Stiles with a look. “Which means that dad will probably hand the case to one of his deputies, and it’ll have nothing to do with _us_.”

Isaac frowns, a contemplative look on his face, “There were two wolves out in the forest that day though. That second wolf could have easily been the one to kill her.”

“Right?” Stiles says, gesturing a hand at his brother. “That wolf, if it was the one that attacked us, was an Alpha, it can’t just be a coincidence that Hale is now an Alpha too.”

Stiles remembers the way that Derek moved, with the self-assuredness of a born wolf in the way that he carried himself, but there was more than that; he moved with newly-found _power_.

Derek was brimming with it, from the acid red of his eyes to the sharp glint of his teeth, like power had accumulated in him in droves and settled against his skin like a brand.    

“It just doesn’t make sense for him to be the murderer,” Stiles argues. “Derek's lost _everything_ already, why the hell would he kill his last remaining pack member? That’s not typical wolf behaviour.”

“Oh, god,” Erica says, staring at Stiles with wide eyes. She throws a sidelong look at Isaac. “He’s doing it again.”

Isaac nods knowingly.

“ _What?_ ” Stiles demands. “I'm doing _what_ again? What do I do?”

“Getting obsessed with one of dad’s cases,” Erica says, with a delicate shrug.

“I don’t get obsessed,” Stiles scoffs.

“You get a little obsessed,” Isaac says, wincing a little in sympathy.

“Well, I’m not,” Stiles denies weakly, and even _he_ knows he’s getting a little obsessed by now. “I-. I just don’t think he killed her.”

“You’re trusting this guy?” Erica says. “Stiles, you don’t even _know_ him; he’s a _werewolf_.”

“I know  _dad_ ,” Stiles counters. “And I know that if he thought Hale killed the girl, then he wouldn’t be walking the earth a free man.”

But it's not just that. Stiles knows he’s missing something, he just _knows_ it, and he has an inkling that Laura Hale’s body links in with the large-scale operation his Dad is keeping from them.

But Erica doesn’t seem overly convinced and Isaac’s picking at the frayed edges of the blanket, though Stiles is buzzed.

He has half-formed theories and speculations flying rife within his mind, but before he can even begin to sound them out, the door downstairs opens and his Dad walks in, boots thudding with firmness on the hardwood and voice booming out, “ _Kids?_ ”

-

The dinner with the Argents goes as well as one would expect, which is to say, not at all.

They’re in the Stilinski dining room, cutlery scraping against china as near silence pervades the room.

John is at the head of the table, trying in vain to make conversation flow; Stiles and Erica are seated at either side of him, Isaac next to his sister.

Stiles is not particularly concerned with the awkwardness in the room, however; his mind wandering as it is. He’s still thinking about the body in the woods.

He knows his Dad only took Derek in on a preliminary basis, seeing as he was Laura’s only family member. Derek was questioned but allowed to go, which kind of proves Stiles’ earlier theorisation.

A fact he’d made sure to declare to his sister, _loudly_ and many, many times and he’d received an exasperated eye roll for his troubles.

Stiles doesn’t know what it is about Derek that makes him inclined to believe that he didn’t kill his sister. It’s not that he thinks he’s innocent, not by a long shot.

Derek Hale screams danger in all forms, and his visit to Stiles assured him of _that_ at the very least.

It’s more to do with the fact that the murder seems much too _clinical_ to be the result of a typical werewolf fight. Stiles has seen the gruesomeness of the aftermath of a werewolf fight for dominance, he has three long claw marks that curve over the jut of his hip and roll over the top of his thigh that proves it.

That’s not to mention the way that his father has been acting about this whole thing. It is undeniably secretive, in the way that Isaac suggested, but it’s more than that; it’s downright suspicious.

His dad has drafted a further three hunters, and their families, into the county. Which granted, is common protocol amongst hunters, for the head of the Family to take a partition of hunters with them wherever they move, for security if for nothing else. 

Stiles would likely not even have taken particular notice of it had he not snuck a look at his father’s files the day before. The Stilinskis have a fair number of their hunters scattered pretty evenly across the country, as well as a smaller number of operatives working in Eastern Europe, a further few in Wales and Ireland.

But what’s noteworthy here is the entirely disproportionate amount of Stilinski Hunters congregating on the West Coast, in _California_ in particular.

That’s not to mention the fact that the three hunters that his dad has drafted into Beacon County are Ghosts, that is, operatives so high up in the Family that their identities are sheltered from everyone, from other Families as well as most base operatives in their _own_ organisation.

 _Stiles_ doesn’t even know who these hunters are; they could be anybody. But he knows one thing for certain; this thing that his dad is involved with is much larger than the deaths in Beacon Hills.

He’s chewing on the straw he’s stuck into his glass of lemonade, munching on the plastic with conviction as he tries to piece together the situation, becoming more and more aggravated, as he realises how much he _doesn’t_ know, when he hears his name.

He dismisses it at first, ignoring it in favour of the turbulent mess of half-formed theories and ideas in his head, but then his father says once more, voice laced with mild frustration, “ _Stiles?_ ”

The straw fall limp out of Stiles’ mouth; he stares at his dad, and it takes him a while to re-orientate himself, “What?”

His dad sighs, eyeing him warily, a look that Stiles knows to mean _‘did you remember to take your meds today?’_

Stiles did, he knows he did, he remembers his pill bottle rattling it’s way through the air when Isaac threw it to him the second he stepped over the threshold of the kitchen that morning; Stiles tries to convey this as much as possible in his gaze, and eventually his father seems to gain a moderately satisfactory answer out of his facial expression.

He sighs yet again, rubbing a hand over his forehead before he says, “Chris asked you a question.”

Stiles turns to where Chris Argent sits on the furthermost edge of the table, sitting at the head with Victoria and Kate placed on either side of him and Allison between Kate and Stiles.

Truth be told, Stiles had almost forgotten that they were there at all, much too busy trying to piece together the puzzle of Laura Hale’s murder inside his head.

“I asked if you were settling in alright,” Chris says, blue eyes glinting as he brings his glass of wine to his mouth. “At your new school, I mean.”

“I-. Well, I mean it’s _school_ , y’know?” Stiles says, gathering enough wits to place his lemonade down and pick up his fork again. “It’s nice or whatever, but there’s not much to say about it. I’m sure Allison would have told you everything anyway.”

“She has,” Chris agrees, smiling blithely. He places his wineglass down, cuts into his steak, chews slowly before turning his gaze back to Stiles. “She hasn’t, however, made much mention of being around you,  _at all_. I’ve just been wondering how you were.”

Stiles tenses, fingers tightening on the handle of his fork, and his gaze cuts sharply to his sister sitting opposite him; Erica shakes her head discreetly, issuing silent counsel.

The evening has been characterised by this precisely, with the Argents making carefully orchestrated jabs at the tension between the two families.

They’re doing it on purpose, Stiles knows, in order to try to make the Stilinskis’ hackles rise, a desperate plea at gaining the upper hand.

Stiles forcibly relaxes his grip on his fork, licks his lips, looks at Argent.

“Allison’s bosom buddies with Lydia Martin now, apparently. You know how that is,” Stiles smiles. “Beautiful people herd together.”

“You’re also friends with Lydia,” Allison remarks lightly, from beside him.

Which is true, to say the least. They’d met some three days previously, after Stiles had chased away Erica’s newest admirer, some kid in her grade who’d slid into Isaac’s seat and was tripping over himself to impress her.

Stiles had, naturally, slipped into the seat opposite the kid and proceeded to silently stare at him until he’d stuttered over his words, stammered to a stop, thrown him increasingly worried glances over and eventually fled the scene, discomfited by Stiles’ unwavering glare.

Erica had been none too pleased, of course, sparing her brother a withering look from across the table.

“What?” he’d said, casually cracking open his bottle of water. “I have to cement my reputation, Eri, _c’mon_.”

“The reputation of being a chauvinistic moron?” Erica hissed. “Oh, _trust me_ , Stiles. You’ve already got that covered.”

Then she’d promptly thrown one of her fries at his head and stormed off, leaving Stiles to eat alone.

Isaac, like the traitor he was, broke from the food line, took one look at Stiles, then at Erica, and then at Stiles again, before ducking his head as he quickly followed Erica’s trajectory.

Traitor.

Stiles was so busily glaring at his siblings from across the food hall, that it took him a second to realise that somebody had taken Erica’s place.

“Ouch,” Lydia remarked drily, looking at Erica and then at him, sardonicism dripping over her delicate features.

Stiles had raised an eyebrow, “Lydia.”

“Stiles,” she’d said, raising an eyebrow of her own, lips quirking into a smile.

And that had been that.

Stiles looks at Allison now, puts on his most charming smile, “Well, Allie, I guess you’ve just got that something _special_.”

Chris smirks, briefly, masking it with a gulp of his wine, and Allison smiles at Stiles, though he has the distinct feeling that she’s gritting her teeth behind her lips as she offers a polite, “Thank you.”

Stiles smiles warmly at her, even though he knows it won’t be returned because despite everything, he doesn’t hate her. In fact he _misses_ her, a hell of a lot, and he can only wish that her families’ dogmatic traditions haven’t filtered into her mind-set, but even Stiles knows that that’s too much to ask.

Kate tucks a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and leans back in her chair, one elbow propped on the back and one elegant leg draped over the other.

She watches the interaction between Stiles and Allison with lazy interest, an eyebrow cocked and her tongue flicking against the roof of her mouth.

“You know, Stiles,” she smiles and it’s all teeth, wide and a little brutish. “It such a shame that Allison’s not your … _type,_ exactly. A union between our families would have been just _fascinating_.”

Just like that the tension in the room folds over itself; like a pouf of tautness floating in plumes of anger across the room, silence descends.

Stiles feels pinpricks of heat burst over his skin and he freezes.

Then his palms slap on the table and his chair scrapes back, to to flee the room in embarrassment or to punch Kate Argent in the face in sheer anger he doesn’t know yet.

But he doesn’t get too far, he doesn’t even manage to stand up properly before Erica’s legs are trapping his ankle and pulling him back, making him sit back down with a breathless _thump_.

Stiles glares at his sister, but she glares right back, fingers digging into the muscle of Isaac’s arm from where she’s trying to keep him still beside her; he's red in the face and glowering at Kate with a hatred that is more vitriolic than Stiles himself could ever hope to muster.

Stiles sits, albeit reluctantly, and forces himself to calm down a little. Allison is determinedly staring at the table in front of her and Victoria looks flustered beside her husband, who’s looking a little pale himself, eyes flickering from Stiles, to Kate to Stiles’ dad and back again.

John sits perfectly still beside Stiles; the hand he has on the table is relaxed, his other curled into a loose fist. His body language is considerably temperate and anyone would mistake the Sheriff for being unperturbed, but Stiles?

Stiles can see the anger in the line of his father’s mouth, the way his body is held rigid, muscles ready to pounce despite the misleading relaxation of his body; and then there’s his unwavering gaze, the steeliness of his eyes, at once fierce and defensive.

He _stares_ Kate down, expression almost burning with condescension and she wilts beneath the his hard, incensed gaze, lowering her eyes, biting her lip in discomfort and blushing even as the Sheriff continually stares.

The silence stretches out: long, thin and fragile.

That’s the thing about Stiles’ dad, he doesn’t need words to announce himself as the most powerful person in the room; he does it through gesture, through glances and stares and the way that he acts, and Stiles'll be damned if he’s not proud of his dad in that moment.

The Sheriff carries with him an air of dangerous wrath, every point of his body strung together by a tightly coiled rope of self-control, and by the way that nearly everybody else at the table squirms in discomfort, that anger is a palpable thing.

The only one who is seemingly unaffected is Chris; he sighs, runs his fingers through his hair and says, quietly, “John.”

Just like that, Stiles’ dad breaks his gaze from Kate, who exhales quietly with relief, to look at Chris. They have some sort of silent conversation compromised of stoic faces and microscopic eyebrow twitches that Stiles has no hope of keeping up with.

Eventually, Stiles’ dad thins his lips, takes a deep breath, seemingly falling out of the dangerous tension that had been encircling him not two minutes earlier. By the expressions present around the table, Stiles is not the only one who seems to be both relieved and confused by their interaction.

Stiles knows that his dad has known the Argents practically all of his life; while he and Chris weren’t exactly friends as they grew up, they had an awareness of each other nevertheless.

In fact, the most Stiles has seen both sets of families continually interact was in his own childhood, when he was still friends with Allison.

The Sheriff turns back to Kate, “I think you owe my son an apology.”

Kate dabs her mouth with her handkerchief and smiles, first at the Sheriff and then at Stiles.

“I’m sorry,” she says to him. “I didn’t mean to cause offence.”

“Yes, you did,” the Sheriff refutes easily and, like an echo, Isaac’s voice reiterates those same words.

The Sheriff looks at Isaac, and Stiles can see that his baby brother has to force himself to physically calm down in response to their dad’s silent warning; he unfurls his fingers from his fists, leans back, tries to stop glowering so hard.

Stiles’ father picks up his fork, begins eating and the conversation is dismissed, as easy as that.

Stiles follows suit, but he’s still angry. He knows precisely what Kate had meant by her comment. It seems innocuous enough, but the tradition of heirs and heteronormative assumptions of character is something that the Hunting Families have only _just_ managed to overcome in recent generations, and in a culture so seeped in bigoted traditions, it was no small feat.

Stiles _is_ bisexual but it’s no secret that, lately at least, he’s had more of a preference for men rather than women.

His father is progressive and he doesn’t pay much mind to the idea of heirs and bloodlines, but it’s still somewhat of a sore spot, not so much for him but for other hunters.

The Sheriff’s heavy hand comes to rest on the nape of Stiles’ neck, startling him a little, and when he looks up his dad’s expression is all affection.

He ruffles Stiles’ hair as he smiles at him and Stiles feels like he can do nothing but smile bashfully back at his father.

At the other end of the table Victoria clears her throat, runs her fingers through the fine strands of her red hair and smiles at Erica.

That’s the thing about Victoria, Stiles thinks; she’s absolutely terrifying in every single aspect of her life, but so much less so when she _smiles_. She’s always been tough in the maternal way, only a little more than Stiles’ own mom was, but she was always, _always_ good to him.

“I heard you caused quite a stir at school,” Victoria tells her, and Erica beams, blushes in her pride.

Isaac knocks into her shoulder and they share a smile with each other. Erica had made the sophomore Lacrosse team the day before; she’d marched straight up to Coach Finstock and demanded to be allowed to try out.

Erica isn’t ‘strong’ in the common sense. Oh, she’ll kick _anybody’s_ ass, Stiles has no doubt, even despite her epilepsy, but only because as a Hunter, physical prowess is required of her and she’s fought long and hard to overcome her medical difficulties.

But Erica’s real natural strength, her absolute passion in life is … _bullshitting_.

Erica’s the cleverest manipulator Stiles has met in his seventeen years; she has enough dry wit to found the Sahara, and a razor sharp smile that seems, at times, much too advanced for a girl her age.

So she’d stood in front of Finstock, spine straight and shoulders stiff, arguing with him until they were both red in the face and infuriated.

The man was blowing his whistle and waving his clipboard about with such vigour that Erica was visibly having a hard time not getting hit in the face.

Stiles was sitting on the sidelines, in between Scott and Greenberg, with the rest of the juniors waiting for their try-outs. He’d been laughing silently, leaning heavily on Scott’s shoulder as they watched the scene unfold. 

“This is beautiful, Scotty,” he’d told him as they watched Erica balance on the tiptoes of her sneakers to better jab an accusatory finger in Finstock’s face. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Finstock, gesticulating wildly, seemed to be at his wit’s end, so he puffed out his chest in irritation, yelled in frustration, “But you’re a _girl!_ You can’t play on the boys’-.”

Even Isaac, already out waiting in the field with the rest of his grade, winced in sympathy for the coach.

“The good thing about being a Stilinski, _Bobby_ ,” Erica hissed, glaring up at the man, who’d gasped at hearing his name being used so viciously by a teenager, a reaction far too melodramatic, Stiles thought. “Is that we’re taught to understand our own limitations. So, I wouldn’t ask to play, if I didn’t think I _could_ play. Got it?”

Finstock opened his mouth to speak but Erica had silenced him with a single raised hand.

“You should concentrate on judging people on their athletic ability, Coach, considering them from positions based on their _skill_  and not whether they have a _vagina_ ,” Erica stared him down, pausing long enough for the man to go puce red in the face. “Or lack thereof.”

She’d left the man so flustered, so damn annoyed that he’d eventually conceded (no doubt hurried into acquiescence by Erica’s all too casual knowledge of gender discrimination laws and blasé mentions of her father being the Sheriff).

Erica had offered him a prim, “Thank you,” before gathering up the equipment, which she’d hassled off of the poor kid in charge of handing out the kit, to her breast, sticking her nose in the air and sauntering off to the field.

The team had been delicate with her at first, the boys flustering about like headless chickens at the prospect of having a _girl_ playing with them, so they flounced and they blushed and they gave her the ball all too easily.

Isaac had rolled his eyes, ran straight for Erica and shoved his shoulder into his sister's stomach, making her fall hard and flat on her back, before messily taking the ball from her net (the Stilinski boys still hadn’t really gotten the hang of Lacrosse, despite their big talk only days previously).

Erica had quickly got back up and chased after her brother, who was cleverly dodging all of his opponents, letting out a battle cry so fierce that it made the rest of guys on the team freeze, caught in limbo between terror and amusement.

The Stilinskis had made their respective teams by the skin of their teeth, seeing as they were a lot less skilled than their counterparts, but their athletic background had paved the way somewhat.

They’d come back covered in grass stains and purpling bruises but it was worth it, if only for the look of overwhelmed pride on their dad’s face.

-

Stiles is in his dad’s study later on, as the adults have coffee downstairs and the twins battle each other on Halo in Isaac’s room, searching for one of the hunting files his dad asked him to fetch.

It’s one of the most prominent cases, a ragtag group of omegas in Minnesota attacking old people’s homes for an easy kill. His dad has his operatives there, ready to neutralise the threat. But the situation is delicate; the omegas have integrated themselves into the community, so they can’t exactly go in guns blazing.

It’s a show of mutual respect, and trust and all that jazz, to show the file to Argent, even though Stiles knows his father doesn’t trust the Argents as far as he can throw them.

The Minnesota case is one of their most prominent cases, yes, but it’s not at all even in the realm of their most _important_ cases; his dad is a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.

He’s about to close his dad’s safe, where this particular hunting file was stored, when he sees it.

It’s a hunting file, peeking out just beneath his dad’s favourite hand pistol and a stack of documents. It’s glossed black, a little thicker than usual and looks a lot older than the one he has currently tucked under his arm.

But the thing that catches Stiles’ eye is the embossed letters on the bottom left hand corner of the cover: D. S. H.

Stiles pulls the file out carefully; it’s stuffed with loose papers, neatly stapled. When he opens it, Stiles notices the name of course, Derek Sebastian Hale, and the various biological information: date and location of birth, affiliated pack, genealogical background etc., etc.

All standard procedure, though what really catches his eye are the pictures of Derek,  _dozens_ of them. They range at least three years from what Stiles can see, many of various size stapled on various pieces of document with his father’s recognisable penmanship making notes on and around them.

They’ve been tracking Derek, and Laura, for a long time now but Stiles can see no stamp of dismissal anywhere, which must mean that the investigation is still on going.

God, he thought that the Hales’ return to Beacon Hills was coincidental with that of the Stilinskis’, but if his dad was tracking them, then he must have known they were planning on coming back.

His mind is working at full speed, trying in vain to make connections between what he knows and what he speculates but it’s just not _working_ ; he seems stuck on the fact that his dad has been tracking the Hales for all these years.

Now, if only Stiles can work out what _for_. 

The door to his father’s study opens with a click, and Stiles hurries to close Derek’s file and shove it into the safe, beneath the neat stack of documents. He manages to close the safe door, with a groan and a clang and his heart thundering in his chest, just in time for Kate to saunter in.

Stiles grabs the Minnesota file and hides it behind his back as he whirls around to face her, he’s not entirely sure why he does that, but Kate’s always been entirely too nosy and Stiles entirely too gleeful in keeping as much as he could from her.

She cocks her head to the side, golden ringlets clamouring against each other, and she regards him with an idle smile, “What are you doing?”  

“You’re asking me what I’m doing?” Stiles says, lifting his eyebrows in insolence and stepping away from the safe. “In my _own_ house?”

“You’re in your dad’s study,” she observes lightly; Stiles is very aware that his act of off-handedness is entirely anything but, he doesn’t need her pointing out his obvious fallacies.

“So are you.”

“I wanted to apologise,” Kate says, taking a neat step further into the room. “For earlier, about what I said to you. That wasn’t fair.”

Stiles nods, rolling forward onto the balls of his feet, “Consider it accepted.”

She clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth but her eyes, perceptive as ever, fall keenly on the file just peeking from behind Stiles’ back.

“What’s that?”

His reaction is instantaneous, completely immediate, “None of your business.”

She looks like she’s going to retort, like she’ll smile at him in that condescending way and ask again but then Stiles’ father is coming up the stairs.

John stops when he walks in, eyes each of them in turn.

“I thought you knocked yourself out or something,” he says to Stiles. “What took you so long, kid?”

“I was talking,” Stiles says, affronted. He’s quite capable of not knocking himself out when running errands for his father; he’s not _seven_ years old anymore, thank you. “To Kate.”

“Offering my apologies,” Kate adds with a nod and a smile when John turns to her.

Stiles’ dad doesn’t even deign that with a response; he merely sighs once more, haggard and disgruntled, before he turns to Stiles and holds out a hand in expectation.

Stiles scuttles over to him, squeezing past Kate in order to hand his dad the Minnesota case file; he hovers in front of him, expectantly, glancing over at Kate until she gets the hint and makes her way downstairs.

Stiles, though, remains dithering next to his dad, scratching at the underside of his jaw as he tries to sneak a peek at the file his dad has open in his hands.

John stops in his ministrations, glances up and looks blankly back at Stiles.

“Don’t you have a party or something to get to?” he asks, squinting his eyes at his son.

Stiles does, actually - Lydia Martin’s celebratory _Start of Junior Year Party -_  but he’s waiting until Allison leaves first, so that they don’t have to do the whole awkward ‘oh, we’re going the same way?’ dance and shuffle out of the door.

His father seems to instinctively know this and he rolls his eyes.

“She’s gone,” he sighs, closing the file with a snap; Stiles is bent over it so close that it nearly catches his nose. He'll bet his father did that on purpose, going by his quiet chuckles. “It’s Friday night and you have a party. Go, have fun. I don’t have to remind you to be careful on a full moon, Stiles, so leave.”

Stiles clearly doesn’t move fast enough for the Sheriff, who ends up thwacking him on the side of the head with the file in an effort to get his son moving.

“Go,” the Sheriff shoos.

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles squawks, but he flails his way into movement nonetheless. “My god!”

“ _Get_.”

“I’m _going_ ,” Stiles exclaims, spilling out into the landing. His dad’s right behind him, exasperated smile lighting up his face.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, suspicions, suspicions ... I love the smell of plot in the mornings. And it is. Morning, I mean. It's ten past five and I've stayed up all night to finish this chapter (that's how much I'm committed to you guys y'see?) I also need to get up at nine, so that gives me four hours of sleep? Yeah, I'm gonna look trés terrible tomorrow!  
> Haha, anyway, comment if you want and if you liked :) Come talk to me on tumblr (ohmycumberlord) and I shall see you guys in about ten days-ish!


	4. Odyssey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! It's a tad bit later than ten days but I seriously underestimated how busy I was going to be once I got back home, which is great news for my social life but not so much for my writing!  
> Hahaha, I'll try to write more though! I promise :)  
> Anyway, for this chapter, I highly characterise Lydia's party by 'M.O.N.E.Y.' and 'Settle Down' by The 1975 so you should totally have a listen, they're great! :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

For a friend with an understanding heart is no less valuable than a brother.

**Homer.**

-

The air is crisp and still as Stiles stands outside Lydia’s. The house is a beacon of light amongst the shadows of the street, with white fairy-lights interspersed with the dark leaves of the evergreen shrubbery and the shifting beams of colour that flood the downstairs windows alongside the heavy base thump that Stiles can hear, the vibrations reverberating through the soles of his sneakers.

Lydia opens the door not too long after Stiles knocks, wrapped in a silver number and standing tall on delicate stilettos, earrings peeking out from behind the waves of her copper hair. She purses her lips and pins Stiles with a look.

“You came,” she remarks, keen gaze running over the jeans and tee-shirt he hadn’t bothered changing out of.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles sighs, rocking on the balls of his feet. “I had no choice.”

She quirks her eyebrow once, quick and sharp, “No choice?”

“You threatened my balls,” Stiles says, nodding gravelly. “A man tends to take that very seriously.”

Lydia narrows her eyes at him, but Stiles can already see her stony façade crumbling, spies the fond smile that playfully flickers over her mouth.

He has a bottle of whiskey nestled in his hands behind his back, complete with a bright purple ribbon tied in a messy bow around the neck, and he proffers it to Lydia as he grins, bright and full.

She rolls her eyes, taking the bottle before ushering him in with a tip of her head and a dismissive hand.

Lydia is not at all what Stiles was expecting. He’d made preconceptions of course, but that was a given with how Lydia held herself around school, prowling the corridors of the building as if she founded the very bricks of the place.

He thought she’d take to their friendship like she did everything else, with a cool detachment and a fierce stringency; but now, seeing the smile on her face, as she presses a hand to the small of Stiles’ back and steers him further into the house, he thinks he was mistaken after all.

The place is, unsurprisingly, packed with people. They’re mostly kids that Stiles has seen around school, people he’s smiled politely at, nodded to in recognition but never actually bothered to make significant contact with; his friendship, like a bubble, is accessed only by a certain few.

Lydia is much the same, and the party she throws more than reflects that because even though Lydia has invited the entirety of their junior year, there is a clear division between the standard class and the so-called elite.

They occupy the two major divisions of Lydia’s living room, the standard crowd loiter self-consciously against the walls, moving along with the beat of the song but huddling close to the kitchen, sipping from their glasses, whilst Lydia’s crowd spill noisily over the patio and onto the green-grass of the garden, alcohol soaking into their designer dresses and their satin blazers.

Greenberg dithers slightly between the two, nursing a solitary beer as he absent-mindedly bobs his head to the beat, thin strips of the weathered, damp label from the glass stuck beneath his fingernails.

Lydia is astute, Stiles has noticed, aware of everything and everyone around her. She knows the mechanisms of Beacon Hills High friendships like the back of her perfectly dainty hands, which is why she now shoves herself in front of Stiles and marches towards Greenberg before Stiles himself has enough mind to approach him.

The music that booms over the house mingles with the careless shouts of drunken teenagers as Stiles follows Lydia’s trajectory, and he’s distracted by the atmosphere of it, enthralled by the tightness of bodies shoved together, the heat of enclosure and the heaviness of noise that pervades it.

He feels giddy with excitement, can’t wait until he shoves his way into the middle, gets lost in the sweat and the movement of the crowd, until he can close his eyes, pull a stranger close and pretend that monsters don’t exist.

Stiles looks up just in time to catch Lydia as she breezes past Greenberg, hand shooting out to catch his ear between her fingers and drag him behind her, not even sparing a glance towards Stiles, though clearly expecting him to follow.

There’s a long table in the backyard, set into the patio with an opal glass top, spread over the surface are multiple glass bowls and jugs of brightly coloured alcohol; the air surrounding the table almost sickly sweet with the tang of grapes and lime.

She stops here and places the bottle of liquor Stiles gifted her on the top, tugging at the bow to fix it just _so_.

Lydia’s talking, no doubt berating both Stiles and Joshua on their lack of ostentatious outfit, as her hands flit over the contents of the table but Stiles isn’t listening as he’s much more focused on her actions.

She’s scooping up punch into clear plastic cups, pausing every few seconds to gesture wildly with the ladle and sending flustered drops of translucent purple liquid towards Joshua.

Thick, square cubes of ice clink gently against each other as they float amongst the berries and lemon slices in the punch; the liquid is a bright and heady purple, with the light from the tall lamps scattered around Lydia’s yard playing with the way that it moves within the confines of the glass bowl.

It looks too much like wolfsbane for Stiles to feel entirely comfortable, and he flusters, voice coming out thick and stumbling as he stares at the proffered drink in Lydia’s hand.

“I’m allergic,” he says, throwing Lydia a sharp grin.

“To punch?”

“To _blueberries_.”

Lydia merely sighs, turning to thrust the drink at Greenberg instead.

“So is Joshua,” he adds in quickly, making a half-abandoned gesture to knock the beverage out of Lydia’s hand, much to Greenberg’s surprise and Lydia’s distinct suspicion. She narrows her eyes at Stiles, turning away from Josh and ignoring him completely.

“Is he really, now?”

“Completely,” says Stiles, also ignoring Greenberg’s baffled expression in the background; he’s been effectively barred from the conversation about his own eating habits.

“Since he was a child,” Stiles tells Lydia. “It’s a terrible, _terrible_ affliction.”

Lydia, seemingly fed up of trying to decipher what Stiles is up to, slams the cup back down on the table, liquid sloshing over the sides and over her hand; though Lydia hardly pays any heed to it, merely flicks her wrist twice and fixes Stiles with a withering glare, grabbing the bottle opener with far too much vitriol for Stiles’ taste.

He smiles impishly at her, accepting the bottle of beer she now offers him, and he hazards, “Where’s your cousin?”

Lydia snorts, rolling her eyes even as she opens Greenberg’s bottle, “Making eyes at Allison, where else?”

Stiles’ gaze hovers over the mass of people congregating around the pristine grass of Lydia’s backyard, some sprawled over the picnic tables dabbled all over the patio like wild flowers in a meadow.

Sure enough, beneath the muted glow of one of the tall lamps, Scott is sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking at a blade of grass between his fingers and enthusiastically nodding along to Allison, who’s sitting beside him.

Stiles had seemingly been the last one in the entirety of Beacon Hills to know that Lydia and Scott were related. He’d found out only a handful of days ago, when he’d spied Scott and Lydia in the lunch-line. He with his head hanging back, eyes closed and an expression that was at once long suffering and long resigned, and Lydia standing beside him, lecturing him with a stern finger in between swapping out the junk food on his tray for various fruits and vegetables.

“He knows Lydia?” Stiles had muttered to himself, because he’d known Scott by then, and he’d told Stiles of Lydia’s crowd with nothing but a bad taste in his mouth.

“They’re cousins,” Erica and Isaac had intoned with the same eerie synchronicity that never fails to make him shiver, and Stiles had looked to Joshua for confirmation.

Lydia tugs on his wrist now, cool fingers holding his hand steady as she pops the cap off of his beer bottle. She too, stares at Scott and Allison.

Scott’s following Allison’s every animated gesture, his mouth open and smiling and his eyes gentle as Allison’s cheeks dimple in a smile. Lydia, however, fixates her gaze on her cousin with a tremendous amount of concern.

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asks, because he’s never seen her direct that sort of look towards Scott before.

Of course, he’s seen shadows of it alongside the fierce superior pride on her face as Coach Finstock declared that Scott could now (finally) end his career as permanent benchwarmer when he joined the Lacrosse team along with Stiles, hovering beneath the exasperation on her face as Scott insisted on travelling to school on his dirt-bike and settling parallel to the look of unbridled anger she’d directed towards Jackson during lunch a day prior, when he’d leant over the table to smack Scott on the back of his head.

But never this, never this amount of trepidation sitting taught and solid beneath her carefully made up exterior.

“Is something up with Scott?” Stiles presses.

Lydia turns to him then, blinks twice before her expression softens into the ever-graceful smile she seemingly always has on reserve.

“No,” she tells Stiles. “I mean, he’s had a rough couple of days, and you know how Scott is.” She rolls her eyes, smiles. “But it’s fine. He’ll be fine.”

-

Two hours later, Stiles is pleasantly buzzed. Not drunk, never on a full moon, but buzzed nevertheless.

He’s leaning by the window of Lydia’s kitchen, eyes fixed on a girl who’s standing on the opposite side. He’s seen her around school, Braeden something or other. She has a loud sort of beauty, with waves of black hair framing her face, deep brown skin and even darker eyes beneath the furrow of her brows.

She’s been scowling ever since Stiles caught sight of her, looking distinctively uncomfortable, and clutching at a can of beer she hasn’t bothered to drink from.

Stiles also hasn’t seen her _talk_ to anyone either; she’s standing against the shadows, shoulders hunched and expression reflecting the utter regret she feels at being left stranded at Lydia Martin’s party.

Stiles takes one more generous gulp of his drink before he’s setting the bottle on the windowsill and making his way towards her.

She notices him just as he broaches the crowd, looking both confused and wary when his trajectory doesn’t seem to change from where she’s standing.

Stiles wraps a hand around her upper arm, and he begins to walk back into the crowd, pulling Braeden slowly and gently enough so that she can pull away if she wants to.

They don’t talk, not that the noise would allow for a decent conversation anyway, but they move closer to each other the second that they’re lost within the crowd.

Braeden seems to have no qualms as to falling straight into the rhythm of the base beat thumping through the air around them, she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls in close.

Stiles grins as his hands sear heat into her skin through her shirt as he rests his forehead on the curve of her shoulder, watching as they swirl against each other.

He doesn’t know how long they actually spend entwined in each other, but he blinks and one of his hands is splayed over the fabric of her back, feeling the slow shift of her spine, and the other is settled over the cradle of her jaw. They have their foreheads pressed close together, eyes locked and lips just barely brushing against each other, her hands in his back pockets pressing them closer.

The air of expectation and sheer tension condensing around Stiles and Braeden is, eventually, broken by none other than Lydia; she manages to twirl Braeden out of Stiles’ arms and into Joshua’s in one fluid motion as she insinuates herself into Stiles’ space.

“What?” she asks.

Stiles quirks an eyebrow in her direction, but she merely shakes her red hair back over her shoulders, “Greenberg will look after her.”

They both turn to look to where Joshua is blushing a furious red beneath his mop of hair and Braeden is rolling her eyes with a grin, playfully shoving him in the chest before she drags him back in to a sloppy embrace.

Stiles snakes his arms around Lydia’s waist as they begin to dance. She drapes her arms around his shoulder in cool elegance, hands dangling over air.

“Stiles?” Lydia says, mouth pursing in a dry smirk. “I’m not a nun.”

Lydia is phenomenally hot, Stiles has noticed. He’s noticed _very_ thoroughly, if he does say so himself. She’s exactly his type, headstrong and fierce, so it’s absolutely no hardship at all to run his hand down the length of her back and over the swell of her ass, pressing her close and tight.

With her high heels on, Lydia is nearly as tall as Stiles is; he hardly has to lower himself to brush his lips over the shell of her ear.

“Where is he?”

“Towards the back gate,” Lydia says, hands moving to thread her fingers through Stiles’ hair.

Stiles turns them a little, making it seem fluid and effortless as he grinds his hips against Lydia, and when he looks up beneath his lashes, his gaze catches on Jackson’s.

Jackson’s glower intensifies as soon as he Stiles licks his lips, stretches his mouth into a smirk. Jackson’s been in Lydia’s bad books for a while now, spending half of his time trailing after her in the halls like a lost puppy and the other half throwing her disdainful looks in between ignoring her in favour of other girls.

Stiles has no idea what the argument between entailed, and he has even less of a clue as to why he’s suddenly Lydia’s go-to when it comes to making her boyfriend jealous, but he does it anyway.

Jackson’s fingers are strained white around the neck of the bottle he’s holding; he grits his teeth and a flick of his wrist sends the bottle flying towards the ground before he storms off, ripping open the back gate before he disappears into the darkness.

“He’s gone,” Stiles tells Lydia. She glances up at him before she looks over her shoulder to where Jackson was previously stood, seeing it empty if not for the gate that thwacks gently against the jamb.

Lydia lets out a loud whoop, clapping her hands decisively behind Stiles’ neck before she begins dancing in earnest.

Stiles moves his hands to her waist, grins right along with her, letting loose and dancing instead of trying to understand the kind of relationship that exists between Lydia and Jackson.

It’s almost like the guests are tuned into Lydia’s mood; they crowd into the stone patio, bodies meshing in a mess of noise, laughter and movement.

Lydia and Stiles end up disentangling, but they remain close to each other, rotating in each other’s orbits and smiling like madmen. The laughter comes easy to Stiles and for the first time in a long while he feels like he can just _be,_  guided only by the heavy bass which pumps with a thrum through his blood.

And it doesn’t even matter when Lydia disappears into the crowd because then Matt’s there.

Stiles hasn’t seen Matt for years. He’s one of Argent’s hunters and only a few years older than Stiles himself, adopted into the hunting fold when a lake monster drowned his parents; Kate had only just managed to pull him out.

Stiles doesn’t have to ask why Matt’s here, figures that he came along with Allison; it’s a rarity that she’s allowed out of the house on a full moon without an escort of some sort. The Argents are particularly stringent on the freedom allowed to the protégées who haven’t completed the full hunting regiment.

Matt smiles at him, and it’s blinding; he’s grown into himself in the intervening years, standing just under Stiles’ height but with the same piercing blue eyes. Stiles’ childhood crush comes rushing back and he finds himself grinning, sloppy and a little too drunk, wrapping his arms around Matt’s shoulders.

Matt’s hands grip Stiles’ waist, brings him closer as they move, hips swaying together, so Stiles closes his eyes and rests his temple against Matt’s. 

It’s only later, another handful of hours later, when Stiles is standing by the desserts table in the kitchen, systematically ploughing through strawberry and chocolate goodness, that he sees Scott.

Scott, trailed by Allison, rushes down the corridor towards the front door, skin paled to a sickly pallor. Stiles follows them at a much more sedate pace, cupcake in hand, propelled by idle curiosity.

But Stiles must take longer than he thought to reach the front yard, because by the time that he gets there Allison is standing alone by the roadside, mouth twisted into frustration as she watches the taillights of Scott’s mom’s car make its haphazard way into the night.

-

Stiles finds Scott’s car parked awkwardly in his driveway and the front door unlocked.

When he finally gets to the front door, his hand hovers uncertainly over the doorknob but he takes a deep breath, gaze unwittingly flickering over the full moon hanging in the sky, before he braves the stillness of the house.

He’s a lot less drunk than he was earlier, but he’s still not entirely sober, so he tightens his hand on the handles of his duffle bag and carefully eases his way into the house with light and wary steps.

Stiles had been in this house not days earlier, playing video games for hours in Scott’s room; that’s where Stiles heads up to now, vigilance sparking the adrenaline in his blood and the weight of his body creaking ominously up the steps.

Scott’s bedroom door is locked but Stiles can hear the sounds of the shower from beyond.

He knocks tentatively on the door.

“Scott?” he calls.

Thee water turns off immediately, and then there’s only the sound of heavy sloshing from behind the door, like Scott’s in the bathtub, so Stiles tries again, “Scotty? It’s me.”

From the en-suite come the sound of Scott thudding onto the floor, garbling a half-incoherent warning for Stiles to leave, to _get away_. 

Stiles doesn’t budge of course, merely yells back an _‘are you okay?’_ but he doesn’t hear anything other than that, a silence so deep he fathoms he can hear his own heartbeat thudding through the air.

He drops his duffel on the floor, takes out a small silver canister from his front jean pocket and pats the comforting weight of his gun tucked in his waistband, more as a habit than anything else.

Stiles steps closer to the door, he places a hesitant palm on the wood before he turns his head and carefully puts his ear to the surface.

For the longest time the only thing that he can hear is his own breaths, feel the way that trepidation trips over each careful inhalation, the taste of alcohol mingling with the stillness of the air.

There’s a shuffling sort of noise from the other side of the door that Stiles can’t decipher but he moves back anyway, just in case. The canister settles neatly in the base of his palm and Stiles’ thumb runs over the smooth polished surface almost compulsively, over and over the embossed Stilinski crest on the front of it.

He ultimately decides to kick the door in. He shouts a brief warning to Scott but he’s already aligning himself so that the heel of his foot hits the vulnerable underside of the lock plate.

Scott’s door breaks open with a deafening crash, colliding with the wall once, hard and brittle and _loud_ , before it slides to an uneasy stop.

But by this time, Stiles can only concentrate on the figure in front of him.

Scott is fully clothed, illuminated by the moonlight flowing through his window and dripping wet, hair curling over the collar of his shirt and sharp-tipped fangs protruding from his gums. His shoulders are hunched over, ghastly sharp claws in place of his fingernails and his eyes are a brilliant matte gold, pupils blown wide in reckless anger.

Stiles takes a deep breath, slow and measured and he knows that he’s going to get attacked, knows it with a certainty that settles heavily at the bottom of his stomach, because this, _this_ isn’t Scott anymore.

So he begins to count the seconds, as he always does.

He adjusts his stance, flicks the top of the canister off with his thumb and his heart beat thuds six times before Scott is rushing at him.

The distance between them is shorter than Stiles had anticipated and so he jumps back, plasters himself at the back wall of the corridor as he brings up the canister, spraying Scott full in the face with a combination of mace and a particularly irritable strand of wolfsbane.

Scott’s momentum carries him straight to Stiles, strengthened by the full moon and his weight makes Stiles’ head thud against the wall, dizzying him for a moment, and then again when Scott punches him clean across the face.

It’s weaker this time though, with Scott being distracted by the bite of the canister’s spray, so a blow that would have ordinarily dislocated Stiles’ jaw at best and snapped his neck at worst, thankfully only splits his upper lip.

Stiles can feel the blood seeping into his mouth and he almost drops the canister as his vision blurs but he slams his foot over Scott’s with as much force as he can muster, bellowing his own anger in the face of Scott’s snarling, pushing him back as much as he can.

It grants Stiles a little bit of space, which he uses to recommence the spray of wolfsbane-laced mace in the werewolf’s face.

Scott’s fist catches Stiles shoulder, and when he rears his arm back with a roar, readying for another punch, Stiles bring up the his left forearm to bear the brunt of the force, bearing arm against arm with Scott.

Stiles grunts, low and hard, he’s relieved when he doesn’t hear anything crack in his forearm, though he knows from the pain that it will make for a spectacular bruise. Stiles grits his teeth and holds his finger down on the canister, angling the spray at both Scott’s eyes and his open maw, making him choke and howl in turn.

Scott eventually stumbles back, pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes, and Stiles doesn’t waste his opportunity; he delivers a swift kick, with the flat sole of his sneakers, to Scott’s groin, simultaneously pushing him back into his room and making him double over himself in pain.

Scott’s hands rush to cup over his crotch, and Stiles notices that his eyes are puffed red and streaming tears down his face so Stiles rushes forward and drives his knee into the softness of Scott’s stomach before using his elbow to stab painfully over the bones of Scott’s spine.

Scott wobbles on his feet, unsteady and in pain, but he doesn’t fall; not until Stiles steps back, brings his loose fists up to his chest to steady himself and, with a heaving breath, aims a kick to the side of Scott’s face that catches his cheek and scrapes across his jaw. Scott tumbles like a house of cards.

He doesn’t pass out though, groaning pathetically as saliva drips from his bared fangs on to the hardwood floor, and Stiles has a moment to think, with acrid bitterness, just how persevering the werewolf is.

Stiles kneels on his back, using his weight to crunch and grind the bones of Scott’s spine. He drags his fingers through Scott’s hair and secures his grip; he pulls back, making Scott’s throat a tight, fraught line as the werewolf whines through the clench of his incisors.

Stiles smashes the side of Scott’s head on to the hardwood, droplets of blood spraying as the skin breaks and the skull cracks. Stiles does it again; once, twice, and Scott’s out like a light.

-

When Scott comes to, some fifteen minutes later, he’s disorientated and floozy. His wrists are pinned up beside his ears with coils and coils of Mountain Ash infused chain-link that Stiles has threaded through the bars of radiator behind him.

Physically he’s fine, the only signs of his and Stiles’ short fight being the smears of blood over the pristine skin that has now closed over his wounds.

Stiles, on the other hand, isn’t so lucky. He’s perched on the edge of Scott’s bed, skin already bruising and mouth swollen and sore, muscles aching. Cautiousness and trepidation has him tracking Scott’s every move; it has him jump and tense whenever Scott so much as twitches.

He knows that the chain-link should be able to hold Scott, as Stiles hasn’t yet met a werewolf that has managed to break through mountain ash, but even Stiles can see the weak workmanship that attaches the radiator to the wall behind it, so he’s left just hoping that it holds.

Scott’s eyes are back to their dark brown when he blinks his eyes open; he shakes his head trying to dispel the fogginess in his brain and he peers curiously from beneath his lashes.

“Stiles?” he says, voice scratchy and dry. “Wha-? What happened?”

He tries to make a move to get up, but finds his actions impeded by the metal binding him down, the chain-link clanging harshly against the radiator as Scott tries, in vain, to escape.

“What the hell are you _doing_?” Scott asks this time, getting more and more agitated the longer his attempts at unbinding himself fall short. “ _Stiles_.”

His eyes flash, a clear line of gold that rings around Scott’s pupil, chasing its own tail like a serpentine loop of fire.

Stiles stands up, tips his chin back to galvanise the power dynamic between them, savouring the way that he towers over Scott.

“A werewolf, Scott?” Stiles asks mildly, and he watches as the colour drains from Scott’s face, how his mouth falls slack in surprise. “You’ve been holding out on me, buddy.”

“How-?” Scott asks faintly, hands falling limp on their restraints. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that his cheeks are sprouting spouts of bushy sideburns and that he’s lisping from behind his fangs. “How do you know about that? Stiles?”

“Are you thirsty?” Stiles asks instead, ignoring Scott completely as he moves over to the desk shoved against the wall.

He picks up a half-empty bottle of water he’d left there earlier as well as the dog bowl he’d found when he searched Scott’s room only minutes prior; he hadn’t discovered more than Scott’s propensity for taking things home from the veterinary he works at and the sheer number of video games he collects, dating back to 2005.

Stiles unscrews the top of the bottle, whirling round so that Scott can get a clear view of the stream of water hitting the basin and simultaneously get an eyeful of the hastily scribbled ‘SCOTT’ decorating the front of the bowl.

Once he’s finished Stiles steps in front of him, letting the bowl fall to the floor with a loud thunk, water spilling over the edges and over the hardwood; Stiles has already cleaned up the blood, he figures Scott can deal with a little spilled water.

The glare that Scott directs at the bowl is mutinous, the implications of Stiles actions could not be more crystal clear and Scott’s eyes are ablaze, a steady glow of burnished gold that intensifies with each spike of Scott’s pulse.

He makes no move to lap at the bowl, the only way that he could actually reach the water due to how he’s tied up, but his shoulders are heaving hard and dangerous as he turns his gaze to Stiles.

“Who _are_ you?”

“Who’s your Alpha,” Stiles counters, screwing the top back on to the bottle and throwing it on to Scott’s bed behind him.

Scott’s breath becomes more erratic as the seconds clock by, and a growl begins to sound deep in his chest. He’s almost fully transformed now, with deep ridges on his forehead and the pointed tip of his ears poking furtively between the dark curls on his head.

Scott sounds like a cross between the purr of an old-age muscle car and the tremulous teenager that he really is. He growls, wet and loud, _“Who the hell are you?”_

And all at once Stiles is on his hands and knees, expression twisted into that of rage as he pushes his face right where Scott is straining forward, screaming belligerently.

“Who is your _Alpha?”_ he bellows, only distantly thankful that Mrs McCall has the night shift at the hospital.

There’s a second’s remiss, a second of harsh breathing and betrayed human eyes locked on to savage ones.

“ _Tell me_ ,” Stiles roars.

Then, comes a voice.

It’s light and trembling, fear cascading over the syllables but determined nevertheless, “Get away from him.”

Scott seems to have been shocked back into humanness, face turned normal and eyes blinking hard and fast and Stiles looks over his shoulder to see Lydia standing in the doorway.

She’s still in her party dress, red hair spilling over the lapels of her grey woollen overcoat and her feet bare against the floor. She has on a pair of pristine white gloves, clinched at the wrist with a pearl centred bow, and they are wrapped around the base of a baseball bat.

She adjusts her stance in lieu of the weight of Stiles’ gaze, shuffling agitatedly.

Lydia takes a deep breath.

“Get away from him,” Lydia repeats quietly, fingers tightening around the bat. She takes a deep breath. “Or I swear to God, Stiles, I’ll rearrange your face.”

The bravado is nothing new for Stiles. It doesn’t faze him and he even backs a little away from Scott, carefully gauging the premature relief marking Lydia’s face.

Stiles stands, his hand ducking beneath the hem of his shirt to retrieve his gun so that by the time that he’s upright, Lydia is facing down the barrel.

Stiles hasn’t yet flicked off the safety from the gun, but it doesn’t stop Lydia from faltering, green eyes fixed on the gun and fear running coarse and thick through her blood.

Beside him, Scott begins to growl - low, base-toned susurrations that tremble through the air, thick and encroaching in the silence. Lydia is still holding the bat, but it hangs dejectedly in her grip, forgotten as she stares at the gun and Stiles’ blank expression in turn.

Scott is at Stiles’ feet, yanking on the chain tying him to the radiator, trying to get at Stiles.

“Down, boy,” Stiles mutters absently, watching as Lydia’s gaze flickers over to Scott, face softening in worry.

“Don’t hurt him,” she says to Stiles.

“Drop the bat.”

“Let me go to him,” she says, all but pleading. “Stiles, _please_.”

“Put down the bat,” Stiles repeats patiently. “And then we’ll talk.”

She drops it instantly and the dull thud of it hardly registers beneath Scott’s periodic snarling. Lydia drags herself to her full height, head held high as she carefully approaches Stiles, dark pea coat billowing out around her.

She doesn’t stop until the barrel is pressed tight to her chest and she stares Stiles down, defiant even in her fear. 

Stiles’ mind flashes with the piles and piles of lectures rained down on his back over the years, most prominent of which featured his father’s voice yelling _‘don’t point guns where you don’t plan on shooting’ -_  accidents happen, Stiles knows, and even with the safety on, he doesn’t want to risk shooting a civilian.

So he reluctantly lowers his gun and takes a neat step back, but he keeps his eye on them.

Lydia drops down beside her cousin, fingertips gently prodding at Scott’s face as she turns his face towards her, pushing his hair back from his face, flittering over the blood stains. She worries when she finds Scott’s expression slack, his head falling limply to his shoulders.

Stiles tucks his gun back in his holster, watching carefully as Lydia’s face becomes more pallid, as her fingers beat against Scott’s face in hurried taps in an effort to wake him up.

“Scott?” Lydia exhales, eyes wide.

But Scott is utterly and completely passed out; the amount of Mountain Ash infused in the chain-links assured fatigue in Scott’s muscles. Well, that and the tranquilising capsule that Stiles had dissolved in the bottle of water on Scott’s desk and poured down his throat some ten minutes earlier.

It wasn’t strong enough to knock him out completely, but coupled with Scott’s incessant attempts at trying to escape his bindings left the werewolf bereft of any significant strength.

Lydia’s eyes swing towards Stiles and he knows exactly what’s going to happen.

Her hand creeps into her overcoat’s pocket, satin wrapped fingers gripping around the irregular shape in the wool.  

She launches herself at Stiles, she’s quick and nimble and the blade of the kitchen knife that she’d grabbed from the kitchen before heading up hovers just millimetres from Stiles’ skin.

But where Lydia has speed, Stiles has skill. Both of his hands dart out to grab Lydia’s wrist, one preventing the knife’s blade from biting into his skin and the other twisting her free arm behind her back.

She bucks in discomfort, expression twisting as she stumbles forward into Stiles, overbalanced by his strength.

Lydia is not at all used to fighting, and so it’s not hardship for Stiles stretch out the arm that’s holding the knife to the side and away from his neck. He digs his thumb into the pressure point of her wrist, right between the ulna and the radius bones and her breath stutters in surprised pain.

Her fingers spasm and she drops the knife, and Stiles uses the opportunity to wrench that arm behind her too, securing both arms at the small of her back and turning slightly so that the knife doesn’t hit her bare feet.

Like this, the space between them is minimal. They’re touching from chest to thigh, though the camaraderie from earlier, from when they were halfway to drunk beneath the cover of the sky in Lydia’s backyard, is all but vanished.

“What did you do to him?” she hisses.

Stiles lets Lydia go with a small shove.

“Nothing,” he spits. “He’ll wake up in a couple of hours and he can go right on back to being a furry little monster.”

Lydia stumbles back a little at the force of Stiles’ push, but there’s no mistaking the utter loathing hardening the line of her lips.

“Are you some kind of hunter?”

“Got it in one, sweetheart,” Stiles says, sarcasm drying his words even though he can feel the beginnings of a headache lurking behind his skull; this is imperatively _not_ how he wanted to spend his Friday night.

He’d figured out that they didn’t know he was a hunter, not only because of Scott and Lydia’s reaction to him tonight, but also because of the fact that he knows he doesn’t smell particularly different from the average human being.

The wolfsbane bullets that his father uses, as well as the other herbs and concoctions that hunters regularly use, are suffused with technology developed in the 80’s, one that masks the scent of certain plants and herbs and all but negates the transference of its scent to humans.

So Stiles knows that neither he nor his siblings have alerted Scott as to their hunting capabilities, so the only way that they could have figured it out is through extensive research deep into the dark depths of murky internet forums (where the name Stilinski crops up once or twice before the Family’s associates obliterate any such mentions) or from fellow wolves who have had the mind to warn them.

“Stiles,” Lydia says quietly, and he doesn’t miss how she moves when he does, mirroring his movements and keeping herself a constant intermediate between Scott and Stiles. “Just let us go. Okay? We’re not going to hurt anybody.”

Stiles barks an incredulous laugh; he guesses that the distance lying between Scott and Lydia makes it all to easy for him to lean forward and take a big bite of her leg, a real big meaty chunk, he tells her. And Scott wouldn’t hesitate.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Lydia refutes, and yet her stance becomes a little bit more cautious, a little bit more strained.

“Wouldn’t he?” Stiles taunts, stepping forward, eyes flickering over Scott’s passed out state before returning to Lydia. “Are you sure about that? You gonna tell me that he hasn’t _already_ tried to kill you?”

He’d guessed on a limb since he knows that newly-turned werewolves display a larger amount of aggression the first few weeks but that couldn’t be said for every single one of them, and Scott is more relaxed than anybody else Stiles knows.

Though by the look on Lydia’s face, Stiles had guessed correctly. His eyes flicker over her face, over the panic she’s trying to conceal and he smirks, “He has, hasn’t he?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Look_ at him, Lydia,” Stiles explodes, words tumbling through the grit of his teeth. “I know more than you think you do, more than you’d _want_ to know. He’s a werewolf, and look at him - he’s almost feral.”

“He’s Scott,” Lydia challenges, hands curling into fists at her side, hair frizzing up at the ends. “He’s your _friend_.”

Stiles laughs; it’s loud and crude and so self-deprecating that it hurts. Because that’s the irony of it, isn’t it?

Stiles has barely known Scott for a week, something that he’s had to constantly remind himself of because it doesn’t feel like that, it feels like they’ve known each other for an eternity and then some.

Scott is the one person that Stiles has been able to actually forge a genuine connection with in the last few years, one without fear of its limitations or timescale.

His and Scott’s friendship had been so swift that the words ‘best friend’ had fizzed in Stiles’ thoughts without alarm or cause for concern; it obliterated any feelings of self-consciousness he had around Scott.

Stiles had talked to his _dad_ about Scott, for crying out loud, so much so that even his siblings had rolled their eyes over the sheer amount of stuff that Stiles and Scott in the days they’d known each other.

And then of course, _of course_ , he turns out to be a werewolf.

Stiles scratches his fingers through his hair, linking them at the crown of his head, and breathes out harshly; he’s tired now, lethargic and beat, “Who’s his Alpha?”

“He doesn’t have one,” comes Lydia’s curt reply.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Who bit him?”

“We don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Stiles repeats, eyebrows raising in incredulity.

“Yes, Stiles,” Lydia says, wild with exasperation. “We _don’t_ know. Something attacked us in the woods the other night and Scott got bitten and now? Well, now we’re here, stuck in this inferno of a giant cliché.”

“What the hell were you doing in the woods at night?” Stiles asks, carefully ignoring the fact that he too had, willingly, wandered into the same woods at night.

“I had a date with Jackson,” Lydia says, crossing her arms over her chest, cheeks flushed with colour. “We had an argument and he left, so Scott came to pick me up from downtown; we took a shortcut through the woods because it takes us to my backyard.”

Stiles nods slowly, gaze running over the still comatose Scott and then to Lydia standing guard next to him. He takes a deep breath, “So you don’t know who bit him.”

“No, Stiles,” Lydia snaps, it makes Stiles want to smile as her familiar exasperation bleeds through her voice.

“The thing came out of nowhere and attacked us,” she says, rolling her eyes even through her distress. “I didn’t exactly stop to have a conversation. So, I don’t know. I don’t know, Stiles.”

But Stiles? Stiles has an idea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins! It's all a clusterfuck of actions and emotions from here on out m'dears :) and the next chapter comes with an extra double dosage of one Derek Hale.
> 
> Also, Lydia and Scott are cousins not only because I say so but because their grandparents thought that having Mr McCall and Ms Martin (nee McCall) in one family would be an awesome idea. 
> 
> (p.s. I tried to load this just as AO3 went down for a few minutes and I nearly had a heart attack, my soul is sold to this website, just FYI) 
> 
> Yup, okey dokey, fandom. See you soon! :)


	5. Mockingbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Waves awkwardly]
> 
> He-ey. What's up guys?  
> Okay, I'm so freaking sorry for taking super long to put this chapter up. I was like 'I'll get this up in about a week's time' and this it took me, what - six, seven weeks? That's because I'm a piece of shit.  
> In summary: school is hard, life is harder, writer's block sucks and menstruation needs to fuck _right_ off. 
> 
> But, good news! University is over, summer is here and I'm no longer a freshman?!? My exams went well, but now I have glorious free months of doing fuck all!
> 
> Which means that from here on out I'll be getting to posting chapters of this weekly (for reals this time). It'll probably be on Sundays as with KotM and I'll also be writing other things but of course, this shall take priority! 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me! I hope you enjoy :)

But remember this, no matter how bitter things get, they’re still our friends and this is still our home.

**Harper Lee**

**-**

Stiles wakes up with a throbbing headache and the taste of bile in the back of his throat. It takes him a full second to regain his bearings, but he’s definitely in his bedroom, he definitely went to bed without brushing his teeth last night and his father is most definitely looming in his bedroom door.

“Stiles,” the Sheriff sighs, and the haggardness in his voice suggests that this isn’t his first attempt at waking Stiles up.

Stiles grunts at him from underneath his nest of pillows and blankets, he moves his head in an effort of burying deeper away from the bright sunlight, grimacing when he inadvertently brushes across a wet drool spot.

“Son,” John tries again, rubbing the corner of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “If you don’t get out of bed in the next five seconds I’ll drag you out myself and, _so_ _help me god_ , I will throw you out of the window. Ass first.”

“But ‘s so _early_ ,” Stiles complains, despite the fact that he’s halfway ready to get up already. In truth he just likes these moments, when his father will try to hide his fondness beneath a veneer of exasperation; it’s a luxury Stiles likes to partake in as much as he can.

“Up,” his father stresses, striding into the room to rip Stiles’ cover off of him. “It’s noon, Stiles. Lunch will be on the table in twenty.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles grumbles, pushing his face further into the pillow, belly roiling uncomfortably with the movement. Stiles is so hungover it’s not even funny, he’d consumed Scott’s stash of alcohol he’d found in the kid’s room until the early hours of the morning, trying to figure out what the fuck they were going to do now.

Stiles’ head is throbbing relentlessly, he can feel his brain pulsing inside his skull and he’s ninety-seven percent sure that that’s not healthy.

“I could have been naked,” Stiles grumbles into the cotton of his pillowcase. He blindly lifts his hand to point in the vague direction of his father. “ _That_ ,” Stiles stresses, “would have been a gross misconduct of your fatherly duties.”

“You say that like you don’t remember the year you strode around naked,” John mutters. “Chest puffed out like a peacock.”

Stiles lurches up from the bed, lifting his head in order to narrow his eyes at his father in accusation.

“I was _five_ years old,” he defends hotly. “And you promised never to talk about-”

John lurches forward, and Stiles mouth closes with a quiet snick. The Sheriff’s hand grips around Stiles’ jaw, fingers digging in roughly on the tender flesh just beneath his cheekbones … his cheekbones and the mottle of bruises that are decorating the side of his face.

Shit.

“What the _hell_ happened to your face?” John barks, his eyes darkening with fury as he clenches Stiles’ face.

Stiles nervously tries to laugh it off, his smile squished between his father’s fingers. His dad turns his face this way and that as survey the damage under the light.

“Uh,” Stiles bleats, swallowing tightly. He shrugs as he desperately searches for an excuse, “Lydia’s party was a little rough?”

John lets go of his face in order to step back and level a grave stare on his son. Stiles gingerly sits up in bed, wishing more than anything that he wasn’t wearing only his boxers and an old faded tee.

“Dad, it’s okay, it’s nothing,” he says, gesturing to the bruise on his face. He’s lying through his teeth and it’s obvious that they both know it; Stiles’ neck heats up beneath his father’s staid glare. “It doesn’t even hurt anymore, just forget about it.”

“Oh, of _course_ ,” the Sheriff snaps. “I’m sorry, did you _want_ to lose your Jeep privileges?”

Stiles swallows tightly, eyes on the disapproval in his father’s expression, “No, sir.”

“Then I suggest you sit up straight,” John counters, lifting himself to his full height, hands poised on his hips. “And tell me the goddamn _truth_.”

Stiles scrambles to comply, feeling all of ten years old. There’s nothing he hates more.

“I got jumped,” he tells his dad, biting down on the inside of his lip before he looks up at him.

“You got jumped,” the Sheriff repeats sceptically, eyebrow lifting high on his forehead.

Now, Stiles is aware that he isn’t selling this very well, because even though he barely weighs one-forty soaking wet, he’s still _more_ adept at defending himself than the average civilian, and his father knows this more than anyone.

“There were two of them,” Stiles says, trying to keep as close to the truth as he possibly can. “I didn’t see them coming and-. And I was drunk. Completely, _stupidly_ inebriated.”

The silence hangs in the air for a long, uncomfortable moment. Stiles tries his best not to squirm beneath his father’s gaze.

“You don’t _get_ drunk, Stiles, especially not on a full moon,” John says carefully, the fragile skin around his eyes tightening as he crosses his arms over his chest. “You never have done before.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open on a response, but he _has_ no way of refuting that; he’s notoriously paranoid about not being in control of himself or of the situation he’s in. So he shrugs and tries to look as hopelessly lost as possible, which, admittedly, isn’t that far of a stretch. “I guess I just got carried away.”

“What did they look like?” John asks next, his voice carrying an edge of bitter anger as he catalogues Stiles’ injuries.

“Dad,” Stiles sighs.

“I want _descriptions._ ”

“I didn’t even see them really,” Stiles argues. “C’mon, it’s not even that bad.”

“I’m going to comb this entire town until I find them,” John tells him, clamping a hand on Stiles’ neck, squeezing tightly, tension deepening the lines on his face. “I’m going to pistol-whip those little bastards-”

“ _Dad!_ ” Stiles exclaims, raising his voice above his father’s. He stands up, and shoves himself forward until he has an armful of his dad, voice muffled on his shoulder, “I said it was okay.”

The Sheriff wraps his arms around Stiles’ back, hugging him back tightly for a second before he pulls back to look at his face.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles smiles, wincing only a little when it tugs on his split lip. “I left them far worse than me, believe me.”

Stiles knows he’s, temporarily, off the hook as soon as the beginnings of pride spark in his father’s eyes.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles nods, mouth pressed together in a self-satisfied grin, at least, he consoles himself, he’s not lying about that.

His dad gently cuffs him around the ear, wags a finger at him, “Lunch downstairs and then we’re going out. I want you up and out of this room in five, kid, I haven’t got all day.”

-

Stiles heads down to the kitchen just as Erica’s tossing the salad and Isaac is setting the table. Both of his siblings pause in the middle of their conversation, growing silent and curious as their gazes rake over Stiles’ face.

Erica speaks first, clicking her tongue with a shrug, “He held out for a week before he had a fight, must be a new record, right?”

“Yeah,” Isaac agrees, plopping down in his seat. “Remember Miami? He got into a fight the first day of school.”

“ _He_ is stood _right_ here, you know?” Stiles grumbles, narrowing his eyes at his siblings as he shuffles over to the fridge and sticks his head in the freezer.

“You look like Satan took offence to your face,” Isaac comments idly. “And then smacked you in the face with a battering ram.”

Stiles pitches his voice higher, mimicking his brother with nonsense gibberish as he looks for the frozen peas. He rolls his eyes, “Shut the fuck up, Isaac.”

“What are you going to do?” Isaac taunts, smirking as Stiles’ back. “Scare me to death with your face? Because I can tell you, that with the way you’re looking right now, it’s a distinct possibility.”

Over by the counter Erica snorts a laugh, covering it up with a cough when Stiles turns to glare at her.

“Oh, _funny_ ,” Stiles snaps, a withering glare aimed at his siblings as he presses the packet of peas to his swollen face. “ _So_ funny. Tell me, have you been waiting a while to use that particular joke?”

Isaac doesn’t miss a beat, “I have a whole cache of them ready and waiting for when you inevitably fuck up.” Isaac pauses, considering, “Though at the rate you’re going, I’m going to have to stock up soon.”

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but he finds the words evaporating on his tongue almost as quick as he thinks them up because that … that _stings_. Especially now with everything that has come to light regarding Scott and how it goes against everything he’s ever been taught to keep him under the radar, to not tell his father about what Scott now is.

Stiles has no explanation for it, because they’ve always made jokes like that. Always, but it didn’t feel like it does now, like a slow ache in the pit of his stomach, ominous and waiting.

Evidently Stiles is not quite proficient enough to mask the tumble of emotions that cascade over his expression and he comes back to himself just in time to catch the way that Isaac narrows his eyes, like he’s figuring something out, and the concerned look that the twins exchange.

Erica adjusts her stance, leaning her hip on the counter, eyes roaming her older brother’s face.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“The sky,” Stiles mutters, only to wince a little as he moves the peas to the swell cresting on his temple.

“Wow,” Isaac comments dryly. “I had no idea we’d boarded the train back to 2007.”

“What’s going on with the _look_ on your face,” Erica clarifies, raising her voice above Isaac’s as she circles a finger in front of her own face to demonstrate. “You only look like that when you’ve done something; so spill.”

Stiles carefully moves the bag of peas over his cheekbone, thinking about how he could just get the ice bag from the mini-freezer in the basement but he’s loathe to wander down anymore steps.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Erica drawls sardonically, quirking an eyebrow in demonstration of how little she believes Stiles’ bullshit. “You really think I’m going to give up that easily?”

But before she can say anything, the Sheriff’s footsteps are heading downstairs. Stiles and Erica move then, striding over to their respective seats, Stiles carefully dodging his little sister’s inquisitive looks.

-

Weapons training, Stiles’ father has decided, is to be taken in the middle of the forest, which is why the four of them are now trekking through the preserve. Erica is up ahead, trotting alongside their father, both huffing through their conversation, hands wrapped around the handles of each of their weighty backpacks.

The Sheriff reaches out and takes the small rucksack of bullet pellets that Erica’s holding in her hand, Stiles stumbles over a fallen log and points an accusing finger at their backs, screaming, “Sexism!”

Isaac, from where he’s following a few feet behind Stiles, adjusts his own backpack and yells in concord, “That is definitely favouritism!”

“Quit your whining,” John calls back; he doesn’t even bother turning towards his sons. He merely glances down at the map on his cell phone as they trek further into the forest.

Erica glances over her shoulder at the boys, flighty and nimble on the tips of her toes with her lightened cargo, grinning full and bright.

“Eyes front, young lady,” John says to her, cuffing her over the ear.

When Isaac finally catches up to Stiles some ten minutes later, they’re deep in the preserve, some ten miles in at the very least, and it feels like they’ve been walking for decades.

He doesn’t say anything at first, as he drops into step with his brother, and for long blessed seconds, the only interaction between the two is the weight of their steps and the heaviness of their breaths.

Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief, twisting the handle of his bullets bag more securely around his wrist.

He catches a movement in his periphery, Isaac’s mouth scrunching to the side, his face turning to his brother.

“No,” Stiles says, immediately.

“Oh, _come on_ ,” Isaac groans. “I haven’t even said anything.”

“Yet.”

“I just want to know how you are.”

“You want gossip,” Stiles corrects. “You’re the biggest gossip I know.”

Isaac shrugs his shoulders, though he’s not denying it, “What happened to your face?”

Stiles levels him with a very staid, very unimpressed look, “What do you think?”

“That you’re not nearly as good in hand to hand as you think you are?” Isaac asks with a quirk of his eyebrow and a self-satisfied tilt to his mouth. But then his eyes darken and his expression becomes shrewd, calculating in that sharp perceptiveness that never fails to send coils of cold sweat down Stiles’ spine.

Or that you’re hiding something,” Isaac says, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Something big.”

 _Dad’s right there,_ is what Stiles tries to communicate through the wideness of his eyes and the frantic rising of his eyebrows.

The look on Isaac’s face, however, is one of pure smug knowingness; he’s just called Stiles’ bluff and Stiles, of course, fell right for it. He scrunches his features into a tight frown, and increases the length of his strides, even while Isaac laughs behind him.

Stiles whips his head back, sharply extending his middle finger towards his little brother as he stalks forward, not minding where he’s heading.

Of course, _of course_ , Stiles ends up running straight into his father.

He flails back spectacularly and his father, staid and regal in his unmoving stature, merely raises a single eyebrow in disbelief.

Isaac doubles over in laughter, loud and mocking, whilst Erica flicks her polished pink nail against the sharp metal of the knife she’s wielding, gaze dismissively running over Stiles’ frantic, flailing attempts to right himself.

The Sheriff purses his lips, “Anything you want to share with the class, son?”

“Uh,” Stiles mumbles, eyes squinting as he scratches the back of his neck. “No? Not really?”

He shuffles his feet awkwardly beneath his father’s gaze, offering him two firm thumbs up to sweeten the deal.

John’s critical gaze doesn’t lessen. Stiles feels … diminutive under it, scrutinised. There’s something behind his father’s look, Stiles can’t quite pinpoint it but it’s there nevertheless.

It’s too loaded to be anything casual, and it makes Stiles’ stomach roil uncomfortably, his cheeks pinking with apprehension.

He presses his lips together and tries to return his father’s gaze as best he can.

Finally, after a long harrowing moment, the Sheriff takes a deep, heaving breath, proclaiming, “You’re doing that thing again.”

Just like that, the tension breaks and it seems like everyone breathes a sigh of relief. From the sidelines, Erica pipes up with a sly, “That thing that makes me want to punch him in the face?”

“No,” John tells her, fashioning his face into a very _serious_ expression. “The other thing.”

Stiles immediately splutters in indignant offence, putting a hand to his chest and dramatically sucking in a breath.

“I am _greatly_ unappreciated in this family,” he tells them all, pointing an accusatory finger in their direction. “I resent the implication that I’m anything less than the best thing you’ve ever had the pleasure to be related to.”

Isaac rolls his eyes, levelling a long, hard look at his father, “Your son has a problem.”

John harrumphs, muttering, “Don’t I know it.”

He hunkers down to the heels of his feet, rooting around the equipment bags he’d placed on the floor.

“We’ll start off with brushing up on your swordsmanship,” the Sheriff says as he neatly spreads out a small mat, before proceeding to line up various types of weapons. “Wrist training, quarterstaff duelling – the usual. Then, we’ll move on to shooting targets, and finish up with a long hike back down, sound good?”

“Sounds terrible,” Stiles assures him with a sombre nod, shrugging out of his backpack. Once he’s rid of all his bags he and his siblings move forward to sit in front of their father.

There are four different types of weapons laid out and placed between them and their dad. The first, a steel Kendo wrist training stick, is barely more than ten inches in length, the thick bottom half of it wrapped in deep blue sheath with embroidered dragonflies.

The second instrument consists of two pairs of escrima sticks, one a synthetic pair of rattan sticks and the other a deeply polished pair of hardwood sticks. The third type of weapon is a pair of quarterstaves, almost as tall as Stiles is, they’re thick and sturdy, and stained a rich, dark colour.

But those weapons aren’t what catch Stiles’ attention, because there, lying amongst the training swords that Stiles has cultivated his skills around, is a single long scabbard.

From the throat of the thing protrudes the hilt of the encased sword; the grip is a curved, rounded onyx, as black as a moonlit sky, and finished off with a straight cross-guard and a delicate pommel, crafted from platinum and the smoothest silver.

The scabbard itself is black, made of refined steel and with tantalisingly rustic details inscribed in silver curving over the surface. The locket of the scabbard is in the same neat silver, with an embossed outline of the Stilinski crest.

The crest is _gorgeous_.

Stiles has loved it ever since the moment he clapped eyes on it, since before he can even remember. It fills him with an honest sort of pride, the legacy of his family, of his ancestors before him; it instils him with a sense of deep purpose and never-ending honour.

The central shield’s background is shaded amethyst, and on top of it is a most delicately rendered [swallowtail butterfly](http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/legacy/natureuk/swallowtail.jpg).

It’s the symbolic motif of the Family, and here it’s depicted with its wings gracefully extended to touch the curved lines of the shield. The butterfly’s forewings are shaded in soft greys and yellows, but the back wings are an exquisite mosaic of ink blues and that same buttercup yellow, outlined in thick borders of black, and with a final touch of red highlights.

Around the shield are two curving vines of Lily of the Valley, and the Polish Eagle presiding over the top of the crest. Beneath is a banner, shaded in the same amethyst as the shield, curving over and around the pointed tip of it.

In antiquated, cursive script it proclaims, _‘Bośmy ponad bestiami.’_

“For we are higher than the beasts,” Stiles reads, fingers tracing over the embossed lines of it.

His father nods gravely, that same look of familial pride burning in his eyes.

“This sword is very old,” he says; leaning forward in order to carefully and expertly slide it out of the scabbard with a clean, metallic zing.

“Old as balls,” Erica and Isaac, predictably, chorus, exchanging a self-satisfied smirk.

“Certainly older than mine,” the Sheriff mutters.

All three children grimace.

“That’s _disgusting_ , father,” Stiles says. “I don’t want to hear that.”

“ _No-one_ wants to hear that,” Erica adds.

John merely continues as if he hadn’t heard, examining the slick blade of the sword beneath the afternoon light.

“It’s mostly ceremonial,” he comments. “It’s been in the Family for a good few centuries, used for training the heirs.” John pins each of his children with a pointed look, “That would be _you_ ,” he tells them. “But I don’t know if you’re ready for it yet.”

Isaac lurches forward, eyes wide and pleading.

“Dad,” he cajoles, fingers clasped tight together beneath his chin. “We’re ready. _I'm_ ready. The readiest. My body is _so_ ready.”

“That's a little gross,” Erica comments.

Isaac ignores her.

“The most ready in all of the state of California,” he continues to enthuse. “The readiest and-”

“Ready enough to go on dishwashing duty?” John challenges with a raised brow.

“For a whole entire _month_ ,” Isaac promises.

The Sheriff stares at his son, mouth dropped open in astonishment for a long, long, second. Isaac really _does_ want this. Stiles and Erica exchange an amused glance and eventually the Sheriff huffs an incredulous chuckle.

“Alright,” he concedes with an easy shrug. “If you think you can handle it.”

Isaac almost sags with relief.

He only gets this way, so ridiculously needy, when placed in front of a blade he wants.

Swordsmanship is Isaac’s forte; it’s his _specialty_ , and the older the instrument the better.

Of course, the Stilinskis never forget that they live in the twenty first century, and as such, Isaac is more educated in the art of small blades and daggers than he is in long swords.

But even so, he and the Sheriff usually fence together, Isaac being the only child who showed an active interest in pursuing the sport beyond the basics. The chances of wielding a weapon such as this one, however, is far and few between.

“After practice,” John promises him. “I’ll teach you all how to use it.”

The smile on Isaac’s face after that is blinding, and Stiles can’t help but share in his brother’s enthusiasm.

The Sheriff puts them through their paces, guiding them through wrist exercises, before lecturing them on correct posturing and positioning. He stands in front of them and they carefully mirror each of his movements, an escrima stick in each hand.

It’s not until much later that the actual sparring begins.

John beckons Stiles over first, and the twins collapse on top of each other at the edge of the clearing, exhausted.

Stiles’ father hands him one of the quarterstaves. It’s just over a metre long, smooth and cool beneath Stiles’ heated palms.

Stiles tests the robustness of the stick against his fingertips, getting used to its weight. He spins the stick between his fingers as stretches out his body, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet at his father moves into position in front of him.

“This is about compatibility,” the Sheriff reminds him. “It’s a dialect, Stiles, a _discourse_. It's not a fight. But I’m not going to make it easier on you and I’m not going to dial down my moves.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees easily, grin playing over his mouth. “I won't either.”

The Sheriff levels Stiles with a dry look, “Don’t get cocky.”

His father nods at him and they start.

Stiles’ movement into position is fluid, he twirls the stick, loosening the tension in his wrist. He stances his feet apart, standing with his body facing sideways and thus minimising the area for him to get hit.

The staff is positioned behind him, at the same angle as the back of his right arm, whilst his left hand is poised in front of him, held still and parallel to the ground.

His father’s movements are much more controlled; he twists his quarterstaff in wide, quickening circles as he moves forward and the lightness of his feet and the poise of his actions reveal the years and years of classical ballet training he has.

The Sheriff stands only two feet from Stiles, his staff cradled between two broad hands and held directly parallel to his body.

Stiles doesn’t see the first move coming, doesn’t even think to react.

His father moves on feet that are too quick to trace, and before he knows it, the Sheriff’s quarterstaff is making the barest, most gentle contact with his forehead.

“One: zero,” John says. “Concentrate, Stiles.”

Stiles swings his own quarterstaff around, using his left hand in order to create momentum. His quarterstaff collides with his father’s in a sound that booms across the clearing, thick and hollow, with a ringing that echoes faintly even after John moves his staff away.

Stiles' father brings the stick to his right shoulder, absorbing the impact of the hit, and Stiles takes the opportunity to swivel the stick in the hollow of his palm, before cradling it so that it lays in front of his father’s face.

“One: one,” Stiles quips with a grin, he twirls the quarterstaff easily between his hands as he steps back. “You better watch it.”

His fists slide against the smooth wooden staff until he’s gripping it about two inches from either end, economising the flexibility of movements it affords him.

Stiles catches his father’s eye, and there’s no mistaking the shine of pride in his gaze; Stiles can’t keep the smile off of his face.

John wields the staff like a sword at his hip and when he springs forward, Stiles has barely enough time to defend himself.

The clearing immediately fills with sounds of the quarterstaves thwacking against each other. The Sheriff is fast, almost too fast for Stiles, and even though he attacks first he quickly moves on to defensive tactics; only moving backwards with each subsequent assault from Stiles’ staff.

John had indeed said that he wouldn’t be simplifying his moves, but Stiles knows that if his father were exerting his full strength, he would already be on the floor twice over.

Instead Stiles capitalises on his the opportunity his father has given him and he switches between swinging high and swinging low in an attempt to strike the Sheriff’s weak spots – his calves, his thighs, his shoulder – but the way that his father so expertly twists out of the way makes it near impossible.

Stiles is barely aware of anyone else but his father in front of him, he’s grunting loudly each time he moves forward and he very nearly manages to catch his dad with a strike to his waist, but John’s reaction is still quick, he blocks Stiles’ move by turning his staff vertically and pushing his son away.

Stiles stumbles a few steps back from the force of his father’s push, automatically moving back into his starting position.

He’s breathing heavily; chest heaving with each inhalation and his heart is beating rabbit-fast. His face is red and splotchy, mouth hanging open as he blinks the sweat falling into his eyes away, gaze not straying from his dad.

“Breathe,” John reminds him gently. He’s hardly out of breath himself, but his face is a little clouded with concern. “Don’t stress yourself out, kid. Take a deep breath, and _focus_.”

Stiles nods a little absently, but he does heed his father’s advice. He stretches his fingers before re-curling them around the stick; he has to grip it a little looser now, since his palm is much too damp to have such a tight hold on it.

He takes a moment to breathe deeply, to compose himself.

“I’m ready,” he tells his dad, loosening his shoulders. “Come at me.”

Their duelling, this time around, is much more rigorous. Stiles’ forearms burn as he wields his staff; and his father’s face turns gradually more red, beads of sweat gathering at his temples.

The sounds of the staves colliding against each other, again and again, seem too loud for the space they’re in, almost like the forest around them is vibrating the sound back at them.

Stiles tries to be lighter on his feet, his sneakers barely touching the ground before they’re off again, nimble as he drives his father backwards with the force of each blow.

His father has to work harder this way, and he deftly moves into offensive tactics. He manages to knock Stiles’ staff from his left grip but Stiles only twirls it in his other hand, pivoting on his foot in order to driver his staff forward once again.

They cross their staves two, three; four more times with dull, succinct sounds before the Sheriff swings his in a wide horizontal circle, the wood swivelling easily on the pads of his fingers.

Stiles has to bend backwards at the waist in order to avoid it, and the head rush that it causes, as he pushes himself back up, allows for his father to get in three jabs in quick succession. Stiles blocks them quickly, screwing up his face in concentration.

Stiles rains a two vertical jabs on his father’s staff, but the Sheriff blocks it easily – instead taking opportunity to crash his staff on to Stiles’ in a way that makes him lose his grip on it once more.

He drives the heel of his palm into Stiles’ stomach and then his chest, turning around quickly as he grabs the inside of Stiles’ arm, turning around so he can drive his shoulder into the Stiles’ clavicle in order to heft him over his shoulder. Stiles crashes to the ground _hard,_ landing on his side.

His breath leaving him in a frenzied rush, and every bruise and pain from the day before comes whooshing back, forcing a pained grunt from his throat; from the outskirts of the clearing, Stiles can hear his siblings’ twin intakes of air.

Stiles rolls over on to his knee, his other leg extended to the side, his quarterstaff hanging parallel above it. He plants his other hand on the floor to help him to his feet.

But then John takes a step back.

“That’s enough for now,” he says, breathing heavily.

Stiles opens his mouth to protest but the Sheriff merely holds up his hand.

“No,” he says, pointing a stern finger at him. “Grab a water and sit your ass down. You’re done sparring for today.”

Stiles grits his teeth but does as he’s told, shoving his father his quarterstaff before stomping over to collapse by the clearing.

Erica pinches his heat-reddened cheek before she bounds over to their father, Isaac following in her wake with a pat on Stiles’ shoulder.

John trots over to where Stiles is sprawled out, bitterly chugging down a bottle of water, and sits beside him.

“Still upset that I beat you?” he asks mildly.

“You didn’t beat me,” Stiles mutters petulantly, though it’s more for show than for anything else. “I could take you out any day, old man. _Any day_.”

“Just not when you’ve been beat to hell and back the day before, am I right or am I wrong?” 

The Sheriff is running his critical gaze all over Stiles, zeroing in on the bruises that still litter his body. It makes Stiles feel worse to realise that his father cut their sparring session much shorter than usual because of his injuries, and because he thinks Stiles can’t handle it - because he _can_.

He _hates_ being coddled more than anything else and he hates that his father wants to baby him.

Stiles takes another generous gulp of his water, mouth screwing to the side, desperately wanting to change the subject. His gaze strays towards his siblings preparing to fight in the middle of the clearing.

He extends a hand to his father, “Fifty bucks on Erica.”

John raises his eyebrow, staring first at Stiles’ hand and then at his face, judgement written all over his expression.

“You expect _me_ ,” John begins, clearly enunciating every word. “To bet on my children with money that belongs to me anyway?”

Stiles shrugs, “Pretty much, yeah.”

His father’s eyes narrow, “What’s in it for me?”

“A meal from any one of your favourite junk food places for lunch next week.”

John’s chin tips up, considering, “Throw in dessert and a milkshake and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Stiles shakes his hand eagerly, there’s been a video game he’s been eyeing for the past few days and he’s already blown through most of his allowance, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise,” the Sheriff tells him, before turning to where the twins are preparing to spar. “Isaac,” John yells over, catching their attentions. “Kick her ass, kiddo. I _need_ this.”

Erica barely has enough time to look affronted before Isaac is springing forward and the match commences.

-

It takes him five days.

It takes him five days, but Stiles finally finds the bastard.

Although, in retrospect, retreating deep into the woods, alone, in order to confront a werewolf, thrice as powerful as himself, probably isn't one of his brightest ideas. 

But he's here now, so, y'know, whatever. 

It took him more than a few stealthy trips into his father’s office, but eventually Stiles managed to find Hale’s most frequented places documented in his file.

It’s only been a handful of weeks since Hale has been in Beacon County, but he’s already set himself up pretty nicely.

He’s been careful about it too, accumulating three different hideouts – _wolf dens_ , more like, Stiles thinks with a bitter, deprecating laugh – in which to live in.

There’s a loft on the other, more industrial side, of town, which seems to be Hale’s actual apartment; a dingy subway station he seems to spend much too long in; and, of course, the dirty, charred remains of his childhood home.

The latter of which is where Stiles is planning to meet the guy. Stiles doesn’t know whether Hale is here or not, seeing as the man doesn’t _actually_ live here, despite what he might, apparently, want people to think.

So, he heads over to the Hale House; he has to dodge three cruisers and even more curious pedestrians, but he does it. He parks outside in the clearing, navigating the dusty blue jeep so it’s more or less hidden by the thick shrubbery on the outer peripheries, and wanders in when he’s almost entirely sure that no one else is inside.

The charred floorboards beneath his sneakers feet croak ominously as he carefully pads around the first large room he encounters – the parlor, he guesses. It's wide, empty and eerie; blackened with soot and grief and as much pain as can be forced into a single room. 

It terrifies Stiles, the idea of losing family so quickly and so _horrifically_ , but it also instills a deep-set curiosity in him. 

He longs to run his fingers over the surfaces but, contrary to popular belief, Stiles does retain at least the basic modicum of tact. 

It's then that Stiles knows he's not alone any more. He can't really pinpoint any particular reason as to _why_ exactly he knows, other than that he does. He knows it with the prickling at the base of his neck and a deep, instinctual churning in his stomach. 

Stiles stills his movements and his hands return to his sides in loose fists. He listens to the careful steps behind him, floorboards creaking ever so slightly. 

From behind him drifts a voice, rough and steady, with a miasma of unbridled anger simmering just beneath its tonality. 

"What're you doing here?" 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have any idea how many hours I wasted researching sword-fighting? Too fucking many. I can't even deal. 
> 
> The Stilinski fighting scene is based on that one training scene in Pacific Rim where Mako kicks Raleigh's ass and he wants to have her babies. :3 
> 
> Also, thank you so much to [Boryzz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Boryzz/pseuds/Boryzz) for helping me out with the Polish! - I super appreciate it :) 
> 
> I hope you stay tuned, shit is going _down_ in the next chapter. Oh holy fuck yes. This fic is also probably going to be a lot longer than I originally planned, but the things I have planned - oh goodness gracious. You're gonna love it! 
> 
> I will see you next Sunday, guys!


	6. Preach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I got distracted by a 100k Medieval!Sterek fic ... and another fic and another ...  
> You know how it is!  
> This was beta-d by the lovely [Jenna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelSage) who lives in California and is thus 8 hours behind me but spent the last 3 hours skyping with me for this beta! :)  
> And also, yes. Yes, I name minor/background characters after supermodels - I'm sorry!  
> Hope you enjoy this! Do let me know what you think :)

Did they preach one thing and practice another, these men of God?

**Roald Dahl**

-

Stiles takes a long, deep breath.

The air seems to be in stasis, cold and frigid, but he forces it through his lungs anyway. He turns around slowly; with his body looking more relaxed than he actually feels.

Hale stands on the other side of the parlour, looking as angry as he ever did. He doesn’t move, not once. In fact, when Stiles peers a little closer, Hale looks almost hesitant, _cautious_ , despite the fact that the only other person in the vicinity is Stiles himself.

Hale stands as still as a statue, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides; his frustration is palpable, but those pale eyes are fixed unerringly on Stiles.

“What are you doing here?” Hale asks again, as he finally moves – taking one neat step forward. “I’m not going to ask you again.”

Stiles licks his lips, mouth twitching into a grin.

“You’re like a cuckoo clock, you know that?” he observes lightly. “Always bursting into my life to ask the same _damn_ question.”

There’s a long, painfully awkward silence. Nobody laughs.

Hale’s eyebrows twitch with incredulity, his mouth dropping open a little, “What?”

Stiles rolls his eyes - Hale might be a little slow on the uptake, but that was a damn good joke on Stiles’ part and he’ll be damned if he lets the moment pass. He’ll repeat it until the idiot gets it if need be.

Dutifully Stiles repeats, hand half-moving toward the man in order to invite him in on the joke.

“You’re like a cuckoo clock,” Stiles says again. “Always bursting into-”

“I _heard_ you the first time,” Hale interrupts snappishly, eyebrows furrowing together as the hands by his side clench into tight, unyielding fists. “Do you think this is a joke?”

Stiles lets out a breath, head tipping to the side - that _was_ kind of the point.

“Did you want to rub it in my face?” Hale demands, face twisting in disparaging anger. “Huh? Walk all over my family’s grave and know I can’t do a _damn_ thing to get you out of here?”

Stiles pales the instant the words are out of Hale’s mouth, horror rushing into to replace the blood beneath his skin; he half shakes his head, realising all at once exactly how much of a bad idea this all was, how it must look to the man stood in front of him.

Stiles is an asshole, he knows that; he’ll never be the first in line to deny that. But he would never, _ever_ , purposefully set out to taunt someone about their family’s death, especially never to someone like Derek, who’s lost so much.

He swallows tightly, dragging his gaze to meet Derek's.

 _Hale_ , Stiles reminds himself harshly. Not _Derek._

“I came here to talk,” he protests, but even so, all sense of comicality drains out of him.

“What could I _possibly_ have to talk to about with a _hunter?”_ Hale spits, like the mere word stings his throat on the way out.

Stiles presses his lips together tightly; steeling his resolve he counters, “The fact that you’re running around biting people would be a great way to start.”

Hale looks taken aback for a second, front teeth peeking out of his lips just slightly. But then he physically reigns himself in, blank nothingness pouring over his features like a vapour.

He moves, startling Stiles into mirroring his actions on the other side of the room. They circle each other slowly, traversing across the expanse of the dusty floor, sneakers moving almost soundlessly. They’re like animals, primed and ready to attack, and just looking for an opening.

“I’m well within rights as an Alpha,” Hale tells him, though he hasn’t lost control of his humanity even once. “To bite people if I want.”

“Not without their consent, you’re not,” Stiles says, eyes on Hale. “You can’t just go around biting people.”

“I _can_ if they’re willing.”

“What kind of _fucked_ up ideas of consent do you have?” Stiles snaps, his hands are tight fists at his side and his anger, on behalf of Scott, manifests in the heavy breaths he’s heaving.

It takes him more than a little while to realise that they’ve both stopped, standing on opposite sides of the room as they glare at each other. Stiles is now standing in front of the window of the parlour, near to the door, whereas Hale is standing where Stiles was just a few moments ago.

Stiles has hit a nerve and he knows it; paradoxically, Derek, with his musculature and his imposing presence, looks nothing more than a child in that moment. Expression crumpling just slightly at the edges, and it tugs on Stiles’ heartstrings because he _recognises_ that look, he does.

The moment’s over as quickly as it begins, and Derek fashions his face into something aloof and blank.

“I haven’t bitten anyone,” Derek says, growl barely audible beneath his words, “who didn’t want it.”

A bitter sneer cuts across Stiles’ face, “I hardly think Scott wanted a creature of the night to jump out and bite him in the ass. _That_ , buddy,” Stiles tells Derek, “is not consent, no matter what your fucked up sensibilities tells you.”

Derek stares at him, “Who the _hell_ is Scott?”

Stiles rolls his eyes once more, arms lifting in the air beside him as he lets out a heavy breath.

“And you’re a deadbeat to boot,” he comments dryly. “Wonderful.”

“I haven’t bitten _anyone_ named Scott,” Derek insists. “I have my pack, I don’t need anybody else.”

 _“Pack?”_ Stiles parrots disbelievingly, surprise clear in his voice as it rises with each accumulating second. “How many have you bitten?”

“Enough,” Derek snaps, stalking forward. “They’re harmless, they’re _safe_ and they’ve got nothing to do with you. They’re my pack and I bit them because, and _only_ because, they wanted me to.”

“You keep saying that,” Stiles argues, matching Derek step for step until they’re barely more than a foot away from each other. “But the fact still stands that my best friend is turning into a furry little shit, left, right and centre.”

Something in Derek’s face shifts, like understanding and ruefulness and pity all at once.

“Peter,” he says after a long moment, his mouth barely moving over the syllables.

“No, _Scott_ ,” Stiles corrects impatiently. “My friend Scott? Who you bit?”

“My Uncle Peter,” Derek says instead, eyes unfocused, staring over Stiles’ shoulder. "He must have - must have ..."

And then it clicks. It clicks smoothly, like there was never any doubt about it at all.

Peter bit Scott.

Stiles remembers the wolf fight from the other week. How the growls and the harsh yelps reverberated across the night, how it rendered everybody immobile. How the sound of claws tearing across flesh and the curdling sounds of ripping fur instilled that primitive flight or fight response - a deep-set fear that scratched across the expressions of everyone in the vicinity.

Derek’s catatonic Uncle, who’d been so badly damaged in the fire that he’s been on the cusp of being declared clinically dead for the last six years.

But apparently not, since he’s been roaming the woods of Beacon Hills attacking teenagers on a whim. Stiles fleetingly wonders whether Peter was the cause of the other deaths in town.

“You killed him?” he asks.

Derek nods, mouth set into a grim line, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“How come you’re still-.” Stiles abruptly cuts himself off, not wanting to finish voicing that thought.

Derek, however, seems to understand what Stiles doesn’t say anyway.

“How come I’m still alive?” he asks, and he says it bluntly – like it’s not his own mortality they’re discussing.

The silence rings out for a second too long – but eventually Stiles responds, voice small and almost timid, “Yeah.”

Stiles asks because he doesn’t really understand how hunting works when the blood spilled is between wolves. He doesn’t know whether Hunters are allowed, or even if they _should_ , get involved.

But then he thinks of what his father always says, and how, no matter what, he’s always been taught that werewolves might not be human – but they’re still people.

Spilled blood is still spilled blood.

Murder is still murder.

But Stiles doesn’t understand the politics here.

“Why did you kill him?”

“I’m yet to understand how that’s any of your business,” Derek retorts.

“But he was your _family_ ,” Stiles persists, pulling information out of this man feels a hell of a lot like pulling teeth.

“It has nothing to do with you,” Derek growls, control quickly slipping.

“It does if having a pack of new werewolves causing havoc on the town is likely to be in my near future.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re not _listening_ to me,” Stiles yells in frustration. “A pack is keyed in to their Alpha’s whims, and excuse me for saying it, but _you_ , Derek, you don’t seem to be an outstanding member of our dear community.”

Derek stops, eyes narrowing.

He takes a deep, filling breath.

“So that’s what this is.”

Stiles blinks, utterly confused, “What?”

He’s only trying to figure out whether a pack of unhinged, newly turned werewolves is likely to try attacking his family any time soon.

“You want an admission, huh?” Derek continues, voice hard and unflinching. “I guess that fabricating me as a sadistic, power-hungry _animal_ makes it easier to justify my murder.”

“Uh,” Stiles says again, eyes wide. “What?”

“I’ve got to be honest, though,” Derek continues. “Your father sending you to do his dirty work is not something I was expecting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles says, gritting his teeth as he regards the man in front of him, antagonism quickly building.

Nobody, _nobody_ , gets to talk shit about his dad.

“What was he expecting, that I’d hurt you?” Derek spits, mouth curving into derision.

“Don’t you dare talk about my father like you have _any_ idea who he is,” Stiles warns Derek coldly, fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t know the half of it. And he didn’t send me, I told you before, I came here to _talk_.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Derek counters. “I don’t want anything to do with your kind. Hunters only kill those who spill human blood, right? I wouldn’t put it past you to find a way to run to your daddy and tell him I gave you a fucking paper-cut.”

Stiles stares in suspended disbelief. He huffs an incredulous breath, mouth hanging stunned and open.

"You say that like that’s the only thing that makes up the Code," he says. "Like there isn't a thousand years worth of legacies and rules and guidelines that we have to uphold. You’re ignorant of it because you _want_ to be, Derek, because you don’t want to open your eyes to see _exactly_ what Supernaturals are capable of.”

"The Code," Derek disparages. "The thing that's supposed to vindicate the spilling of human blood?” he points at his own chest, face twisting into a desperate kind of longing, one that makes it hard for Stiles to ingest. “What about the human blood of _my_ family? Huh?”

Stiles opens his mouth on a breath, but he doesn’t know how to respond to that because he _has_ no answer. He shrugs a shoulder, shaking his head as he looks at the lost hopelessness in Derek’s face – but he has the distinct feeling that Derek doesn’t mean to show this side of himself.

“Exactly,” Derek mutters. The sound itself is soft, but it hits Stiles like a freight train, leaving him devoid of breath.

“Killing is not what the code is about,” Stiles maintains. “It’s so much more than that, Derek. It’s hundreds and hundreds of years of _protection,_ ” he insists, smiling a little nervously. “Protection against things that normal people barely even dream about, protection from monsters and-”

“Monsters?” Derek parrots. “ _Monsters._ ”

Stiles sighs, fast approaching the tether end of his patience, “I didn’t say that werewolves are inherently monsters. I meant that there _are_ monsters and it’s my job to protect people from them.”

“Your _father’s_ job, you mean.”

Stiles’ cheeks heat in infuriated embarrassment, and he snaps, “Same difference.”

“Whatever,” Derek says, “You all still use that as an excuse to kill with a so-called fucking reason.”

He turns around, like he’s finally going to walk away. But Stiles isn’t finished yet, and so he takes a hard step forward.

“My mom died trying to protect people,” he tells him, eyes hard and unflinching as he regards Derek’s back, lip curling over his teeth. “My mom _died_ for that code.”

It takes almost no time at all, but Derek spins on his heel, rushing up to Stiles until they’re stood chest-to-chest, cold eyes piercing one another.

He’s gritting his teeth, voice rough when he speaks, anger burning low and steady in the tenor of it.

“My entire family,” he spits, “died _because_ of that code.”

“No,” Stiles refutes, shaking his head. He wants nothing more than to take a step away from the intensity of the man, but he’s not going to be the one to back down. Hesitantly, he raises a hand to rests on the centre of Derek’s chest, though he’s under no illusions that that’ll be able to stop him.

“No, your family died because a group of _nutjobs_ wanted you dead, Derek. They abused the power that they had, and that’s awful, trust me, _I know_ \- but that’s not on me,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “ _Or_ my family.”

Derek’s eyes never strays from Stiles’ and they stand in stasis, gazes locked on each other.

Stiles breathes in deep, and seems to realise all at once just how close he and Derek are standing, and how his hand is still on the other man’s chest, slowly soaking up the heat of his body.

He promptly drops his hand, taking a step back as he puts himself in check.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says and he finds himself actually meaning every single word of it. He catches the look of pure disbelief on Derek’s face and he stresses, “No, I _am_.”

Derek huffs an incredulous breath, rolling his eyes, “They’re just words.”

“Listen to me, okay?” Stiles tells him, annoyance creeping in nevertheless. “I am sorry that it happened to you, that it happened _at all_ , and I know that I’ll probably never understand what you went through but I still-,” Stiles stops, sighing. He can’t even properly organise his thoughts into something coherent. Eventually he settles on repeating, a little pathetically, “I’m sorry.”

Derek shrugs it off, like he’s physically shaking the words off his back, turning his head instead to stare out of the window instead of Stiles. The silence hangs heavy and awkward and Stiles bites down on his bottom lip, because this conversation has surely gotten away from him. He’d come here expecting anything else but solidarity between he and the werewolf. He watches Derek now, gaze travelling over the man’s figure, and over his face – his clear eyes, the slope of his cheekbones, the darkness of his stubble, the curve of his mouth.

Derek’s head snaps up in an instant, and for a moment, Stiles is sure that he’s been caught eyeing up the man. Derek rushes forward, and Stiles can’t even react because a quarter of a second later, Derek’s hand is scrunched up in his shirt and they’re both hurtling towards the far wall.

Stiles takes a second to lament all the video games he’ll never get play – and his family, of course.

Stiles hits the wall hard, and goddammit, he’s just gotten rid of his bruises, he’s not looking forward to gaining more. Derek is a solid mass of heat and muscle and there’s a split second of clear, crystalline silence between the two of them – and Stiles is going to get the living daylights beaten out of him.

Derek’s so close that Stiles can feel his breath brushing over his mouth. He smells of chocolate and tangerines, of grapefruit and cedar; it takes a few moments to focus on Derek’s face when he leans in so close. The man’s brows are drawn tightly over his clear eyes and there's panic in his expression too. Stiles is half sure that he’s going to die but he’s too distracted by the colour of Derek’s eyes to pay any real mind to it.

He’s entirely _not_ expecting for Derek to fling him to the floor. A cloud of dust poufs up around Stiles as soon as he hits the ground, and a second later, Derek is draping himself over him.

There’s a beat, two, three; and the roof is caving in.

-

Stiles is not entirely sure what the _fuck_ is actually happening, but he can assume that the house is falling apart around them.

Derek is curled over his body, arms folded over Stiles’ head – protecting him, he belatedly realises.

He can feel where each chunk of roof hits Derek’s back, vibrations that course through Stiles with each of Derek’s pained grunts above him. Stiles feels bad, of course he does, but he doesn’t dwell on it, instead he tries to concentrate on how the hell they’re supposed to get out the debris.

It seems like an age and an eternity until the tremors stop and the dust settles in waves across them. Carefully, Stiles peeks out of the curve of Derek’s arm.

There’s an iridescent spot of sunshine settling over the parlour that wasn’t there before, strong and bold beams of light over the piles of rubble scattered across the floor.

Derek is breathing heavily above him, but other than that the silence around them is eerie.

Though, of course, not as eerie as the sounds of the careful, heavy steps that cause the dilapidated mansion to groan and sigh as whatever it is moves through the debris. It’s too loud to be human, that’s for sure.

Stiles turns wide eyes on Derek, breaths mingling together in the quiet.

“What the hell is that?” he whispers urgently - and a little fearfully, truth be told.

“Shut up,” Derek says.

“ _Derek_.”

“Stiles,” Derek hisses quietly, and Stiles feels a frisson of warmth run down his sternum as he realises, with a start, that Derek knows his name. “I don’t _know_ , just be quiet.”

It takes thirteen shaky inhalations before the creature appears. 

It has a distinctly humanoid shape, but it walks like its forgotten it’s supposed to support itself on two legs.

Instead it crouches, its long waspish tail, made out of thickly corded muscle, snapping out behind it. It’s covered in scales, dark olive shapes that glitter in the sunlight as they stretch over its flat nose, bald head and the ridges running over the length of its spine.

It doesn’t seem to have any lips, which makes it even more grotesque to look at when Stiles considers its Frankensteinian eyes – murky yellow and dull.

Its tail lashes the air behind it as it carefully surveys the interior of the Hale house.

Stiles and Derek don’t dare move, trapped together beneath some of the debris as the creature makes its way down from the second floor through the hole, which it has, apparently, just caused.

Its eyes slowly sweep the room until it settles on the figures that Stiles and Derek make: dusty and entangled on the floor, dandy as you’d like.

Stiles wisely notes that this is perhaps not the best time for Shaggy to start playing in his head.

“Don’t,” Derek mutters warily, noise barely squeezing past the grit of his teeth, “move.”

“Sorry to break it to you, buddy,” Stiles whispers back, eyes never leaving the monster. “But I’m pretty sure Godzilla, over there, has already made us.”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Derek bites out, “it tracks based on noise.”

“Or _maybe_ ,” Stiles counters heatedly, “that _thing_ is eyeing at us like we’re the last Bramley apple pie in the buffet for a fucking _reason_ , Derek. What the fuck is this, _Jurassic Park_?”

There’s a pause, a long sigh from Derek and a muttered: “Fuck.”

Stiles sighs as much as he can with a two hundred pound werewolf draped over his back, blasting heat like a furnace. His dick stirs once he realises that he has all of that goodness over his back but he firmly stamps down on it. He did not leave his house this morning thinking he’d have to save a grumpy werewolf’s (admittedly hot) butt, and maybe one day he’ll have to face the humiliation of sporting an awkward boner in front of a giant lizard, but today is _not_ that day.

“I go left, you go right?” he proposes.

“Do you think that’ll work?”

“Killer Croc is heading towards us, Derek,” Stiles snaps, watching as the creature indeed inches closer, head tipped like it’s intrigued by their hissed bickering. “I think some affirmative action is in order, don’t you think?”

Derek seems to agree because he wastes no time in pulling himself up from Stiles and disappearing.

Stiles is up a split second after him, darting in the opposite direction. He’s aiming for the corner with a window devoid of glass, hoping to get out of the confined space. But the thing heads towards him, because of – _fucking_ – course.

The ground is too unsteady beneath his feet, and the thing is damn fast anyway.

Stiles turns precariously, taking his gun out of his waistband in order to point it at the creature. Stiles’ hands aren’t shaking but the floor is uneven and the monster is moving far too quickly.

Stiles manages to release the safety and fire off two sound shots, but they both go wide, one lodging in the tarred beams supporting the wall and the other disappearing towards the ceiling.

The thing catches Stiles easily, tail winding around his middle and yanking him up and off the floor.

It brings him in close, tail too tight and constricting around his ribcage, making Stiles' breath short and his hands shake.

The creature tips its head to the side, a reptilian shudder of a movement that rolls Stiles’ stomach; but then, it looks like it almost … recognises him. It's disconcerning, to say the least, but it only lasts for a moment before the creature seems to snap out of it.

Stiles doesn’t entirely know what to do with that kind of information, so he shoots it in the face.

The lizard (Saurian, Sleestak, Rango – Stiles is really running out of reptilian pop culture references here) moves just before the bullet can lodge in his head.

It grazes past the scales covering its cheekbone, making the creature hiss in pain, and it turns, taking Stiles with it, before it hurtles him through the air.

Stiles, literally, spins through the air, finger involuntarily squeezing the trigger on his gun; he flies through the fragile wall of one room until he’s colliding with the wall of the greater entrance hall.

The point of impact is high on his back and he slaps his hands down on the floor before his face can hit it. Stiles groans, low and rough, gun lost and palms stinging.

Seemingly the moment he wonders where the _fuck_ Derek has fucked off to, the man is dropping into a neat crouch in front of him.

Derek roars, earth-shatteringly loud, before he’s springing forward to attack the beast.

Stiles’ vision is cloudy and blurred, making him feel a little bit seasick, like the time they’d been yachting around the Madeira islands when he was ten and their chauffeur, Captain Erichsen, decided that speeding was the way to go with three children on board.

He doesn’t see the most of the fight, hears only the sounds of Derek’s fists colliding on the sturdy exterior of the creature, Derek’s reverberating growls, the swipe of a tail across the floor.

When he finally does look up, the creature is in full attack mode with Derek. Unlike with Stiles, it most definitely is trying to kill the werewolf, claws scratching forward and aiming at Derek’s most vulnerable spots.

Stiles pushes himself up to standing when he hears a startled, stunned sound tumble out of Derek’s throat. He looks over, alarmed and expecting the worst, frown crinkling above his eyes when he sees Derek’s knees go slack – like a puppet with its strings sliced.

The thing scrunches it’s claws in Derek’s shirt and throws him back through into the parlour.

It rushes after him, clearly, heading to deliver the final blow.

Stiles barely has any time to mutter, “Aw, hell,” under his breath before he’s leaning down to grab his spare gun and magazine from his left ankle holster, snapping in the magazine, cocking the hammer and darting into the room after the two Supernaturals.

The reptile is hovering over Derek’s collapsed form, like it’s circling its prey, head tilted in that freakish way as its gaze roves over Derek’s wolfed out face. Stiles briefly wonders why Derek’s not moving, but then he catches sight of the clear, viscous liquid that seems to drool and drop from the creature’s sharp-tipped claws.

Paralytic venom, Stiles thinks. Great.

He doesn’t hesitate, shooting a fast bullet that severs through the thing’s shoulder. It turns, hissing at him, but before it can launch itself at Stiles, the powdered wolfsbane seems to make itself known.

The creature shrieks, but there’s no sign of the purple-blue lines Stiles usually associates with Monkshood poisoning, so it’s probably not fatal to the creature.

It hurts like a bitch though, going by the way it twists.

Stiles fires another three bullets into him, all hitting in its shoulders and, eventually, its back as it hurtles through the front parlour window and outside.

Stiles keeps his gun up, listening to the frantic steps of the creature as it runs off, disappearing amongst the trees. He moves reflexively to stand in front of Derek, protecting _him_ this time.

And Stiles is still breathing harshly, gun held parallel to the ground when Derek’s tired voice sounds from behind him.

“It’s gone.”

Stiles hesitantly, begrudgingly, puts his gun down – trusting Derek’s hearing far more than his own, but still feeling exposed in this dilapidated house in the middle of the woods.

He turns back to Derek, looking exhausted and dusty where he’s slumped against the wall, and he disables and tucks his gun into his waistband.

Stiles scrubs his hands over his dust-dirtied face, breathing deeply, trying not to panic because of the sheer mess he’s made – saving a _werewolf_ , there more than a few people he knows who would be less than pleased with that.

“Where did you fuck off to?” he demands of Derek.

“I was aiming for a higher vantage point, and then you shot me,” Derek bites out. “ _Twice_.”

Derek does indeed have two bullet wounds, one just above his elbow and one on his stomach.

The veins surrounding the wound on his arm are turning a putrid purple, and Stiles has no doubt that it’s the same for the one on his stomach – so that's where Stiles' wide shots diappeared to. Huh. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, sighing a harsh breath before he storms out of the house to dig around in his jeep.

He comes back in with both a first-aid box and a box of ammunition; and Derek is back to his humanness. Stiles catches sight of Batman among the rubble in the parlour and he ducks in to grab it, looking up just in time to see Derek’s eyes drop to the gun, his expression tensing with something a little like resignation.

Stiles doesn’t comment on it.

Instead he crouches down by Derek, ignoring the constipated look of utter misery and desolation on the werewolf’s face. Stiles is pissed, okay? He doesn’t have time for this grumpy ass of a man to bitch about the fact that he has to accept help from a hunter.

“You owe me big time for this,” he mutters as he brings out the cotton pads and the disinfectant and the tweezers.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Derek replies.

Stiles doesn’t even miss a beat, eyebrow quirking in annoyance, “The stupid expression on your ugly face asked me for my help.”

If Stiles presses the tweezers a little too roughly in to the wounds, well – no one’s ever accused him of being a good person.

“I shot it for you,” Stiles continues, moving on to Derek’s stomach, emphatically ignoring the definition of Derek’s abs. “I could have made my merry way the fuck out of here and left it to its business, because the last time I checked, buddy – that thing was gunning for you, not me.”

Exactly like a contract killer, Stiles doesn’t add, hired specifically to take Derek out.

The quietness that ensues is broken only when Derek hisses through his teeth as Stiles gently dabs the disinfectant over his injuries.

“Stop exaggerating, you big baby,” Stiles scolds teasingly, if only to distract himself from how Derek’s gaze remains steady on him. Eventually, after his cheeks have been sufficiently heated, he cracks, eyes darting up to the other man's. “What?”

“You going to tell your dad about this?” Derek asks, tipping his chin out to encompass the room.

“Why would I tell him?” Stiles asks, rolling his eyes even as he prepares the mountain ash to be burned.

“Paper-cuts,” Derek says simply.

Stiles pauses, lighter in hand.

“Derek, my dad’s ... he's not malicious, alright?” he says. “And most hunters actually do know the difference between right and wrong.”

“Most _._ ”

Stiles nods, he knows that better than anyone really.

“My father is a good man,” he insists nevertheless. He sets the powder alight, watching it flame bright and orange before he gathers it in his palm. He takes a deep breath. “A good man who doesn’t need to know about this.”

He settles for pushing the powder into Derek’s wounds instead of addressing the strange, softly confused mix of surprise and gratefulness that Derek is wearing.

After, Stiles sits some feet away from Derek, with his back against the wall and his gun in his hands.

He continually ignores the puzzled looks Derek’s sending him, but whatever, Stiles doesn’t need to explain himself – it’s not like this is an altruistic good deed. He’ll sit here and protect Derek only because he doesn’t want another death marking red in his ledger, and only because he doesn’t want his father inundated with more complications in his investigations.

So there Stiles sits, waiting patiently for hours beside Derek, both subdued and in silence, until Derek regains mobility in his limbs, enough to protect himself if need be.

Stiles leaves just as quietly as he’d sat. He heads towards his Jeep without a look back, and he pretends he doesn’t hear Derek’s quiet murmur of thanks behind him.

-

Deputy Frackowiak is sitting at the front desk when Stiles walks in to the Sheriff’s department holding his dad’s lunch the following week.

“You father’s with Officer Parrish, Stiles,” she warns as he breezes past, typing away at her desktop. “Make sure you knock.”

“Will do, Maggie,” he calls back, and he does - knock, that is. He just doesn’t wait for his father’s answer on the other side before he’s rushing in.

John is sitting behind his desk, intently conversing with his Officer. So intently that he didn’t hear Stiles walking in and Stiles ends up hearing the tail end of his father’s sentence, “- same M.O. as Laura Hale’s body-.”

His dad cuts himself off abruptly, both his and Parrish’s heads swivelling towards where Stiles hangs in half through the door.

“Same M.O.?” Stiles parrots, absently remembering to close the door behind him. “There’s been another body?”

“Stiles,” his father sighs, but he’s already rushing forward to squeeze between the two guest chairs to plaster himself in front of his dad’s desk.

“Where did you find it?” he asks. “Is it escalating?”

“ _That_ was private conversation,” his father chastises. “And none of your business.”

He has that face on, the one that tells Stiles he’s not going to get his way and he grumbles lowly, already regretting bringing his father his victory lunch from the burger joint in town.

“Don’t sulk,” the Sheriff tells him. “It’s not cute.”

“I’m cute,” Stiles refutes. “I’ve been reliably informed by various sources that I’m the cutest.”

Parrish huffs a soft breath to Stiles’ left, the kind he always emits just before he smiles. Stiles ignores him.

“ _Which_ sources?” John drawls. Stiles narrows his eyes at his father.

“Maggie,” he says. “Lydia. Elliot’s mom.”

“Is that all?” the Sheriff asks, clearly enjoying Stiles’ flustered expression. “There’s nobody else?”

Parrish sits up a little.

“Well,” he says, grabbing the attention of both Stilinskis. He smiles knowingly, green eyes crinkling at the corners. “You _are_ kinda cute when you’re angry.”

Stiles sends him a withering glare.

He turns back to his father, grandiosely announcing, “I brought you lunch.”

“Stiles,” Parrish tries, leaning forward, smile slipping off of his face the longer Stiles dismisses him.

“Burger, fries, milkshake,” Stiles rattles off, ignoring Parrish at his side; he shakes his head, remembering how pityingly Parrish had looked not three months ago when he’d sat Stiles down and said _I still want us to be friends._

Fuck that, Stiles thinks. It’s only been three months, he can still be bitter.

Stiles brings out a bottle of vitamin pills, slapping his father’s hand away from where it’s inching towards the milkshake.

“Vitamins first,” Stiles says. “Erica’s orders.”

The Sheriff sighs, but Stiles doesn’t relent.

“On your head be it when she decides to scream the house down,” he warns.

John looks disgruntled and Stiles, well, Stiles pouts.

He can _feel_ his father’s resolve breaking down.

“Fine,” he huffs eventually.

“Fine,” Stiles replies with a grin. “My job here is done, I’m leaving because I desperately need to spend some quality time with Joshua, his dog and his video games.”

“Joshua?” Parrish echoes faintly behind him.

Stiles ignores him, turning on his heel to walk back out of the office once he pats his father’s shoulder.

“Stiles,” John calls. “Are you not going to say goodbye to Jordan?”

“Nope,” Stiles replies easily, letting the door bangs shut behind him as he breezes out.

It’s not until Stiles is sprawled on Joshua’s bedroom floor, video game blaring on the TV and with Cosimo, Joshua’s Great Dane, draped over his thigh that he realises that his father successfully managed to distract him from talking about the body they found.

“Damn,” Stiles curses under his breath. “He’s a crafty one.”

Cosimo lets out a long whine in agreement. 

Later, when Stiles and his family are gathered around the dinner table, his father is still inching towards the subject of Parrish.

Isaac is leaning towards Erica, showing her a picture on his phones of two people posing together who looked like they’ve crawled out of a five-day meth bender. The sides of their faces are smushed together as they pose for a selfie – they both have scraggly, greasy blonde hair, ‘golden’ grills stained with cigarette tar, and clothes that clearly should have been left in the murky depths of the nineties.

“This could be us,” Isaac tells Erica. “But you playin’.”

Erica sighs, Stiles rolls his eyes and the Sheriff wonders where he went wrong in raising his child.

Stiles’ phone buzzes with a text and Stiles uses his finger to swipe across the screen, giggling at the stupid joke Joshua’s made.

“Who are you texting?” John asks curiously.

“Not Jordan,” Stiles replies briskly.

“Aw, son,” the Sheriff says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re still mad at him?”

“Yup.”

“You know,” his dad says gently, “I really do think he regrets the way that you two ended, Stiles.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Erica snaps, coming to Stiles’ defence even as she’s pushing Isaac away from her with a hand to his face. “Jordan should’ve thought of that before he dumped Stiles’ ass.”

Wow, Stiles thinks. There’s no need to put it so harshly.

“Language,” John chides Erica, before he presses his lips together and regards Stiles. “But-”

“But nothing, dad,” Stiles interrupts, as gently as he can, he knows how fond his father is of his Officer. “Jordan and I are over; we have been for a long time and that’s not gonna change any time soon. I'm done.”

“Okay,” the Sheriff says, throwing him a tender smile. “Well, you know best, of course.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, returning the smile. “I’ve got my eye on someone new anyway.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek wears Chanel Bleu Homme because he's worth it. Check out the [commercial](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oG-nnDlnWrA) for it featuring Gaspard Ulliel because _damn_ son.  
>  I have this handy new thing on my blog now where you can see what I'm writing, what I have already written and how far along I am in writing things and such. For convenience and whatnot :) 
> 
> [My Blog](http://ohmycumberlord.tumblr.com/)  
> [My writing page](https://http://ohmycumberlord.tumblr.com/fics)
> 
> Thank you! :)  
> See you soon, guys!


	7. Greatness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I severely underestimated how hard it would be to write Scott. Like woah.  
> I've been watching 'My strange addiction' non-stop for the past few days, believe me, the irony kills me.  
> Also, there are some new tags (mainly 'Underage' - huh, I wonder what _that_ means for this chapter ;)) and an inclusion of another original character.  
>  I hope you enjoy - lemme know what you think :)

But that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning -

**F. Scott Fitzgerald**

-

Stiles slaps the flat of his palm hard on the bathroom door, the noise reverberating across the empty hall.

“Isaac,” Stiles yells, hitting the door again. “I swear to every god there is, I’m going to punch you in the fucking throat. Get _out_.”

It’s seven in the morning and Stiles has been standing at the bathroom door for the past five minutes trying, in vain, to get his idiot brother to leave the room.

Isaac is a notoriously slow dresser, taking much longer in the bathroom than anyone else in the household – longer than both Stiles and Erica combined.

From the other side of the door Stiles hears nothing but the sound of Isaac’s music, some weird synthetic electro mix from Metric, notching up a few volume dials.

Stiles is still huffing angrily when Erica slinks into the hallway. She has her hair tied up in a loose ponytail and her make-up bag in her hand.

“He still in there?” she asks as she approaches him.

“Of course he is,” Stiles snaps, turning to whack his hand more sharply against wood. “ _Isaac_.”

Stiles is severely questioning why his father ever thought that three kids sharing a single bathroom would _ever_ be a good idea.

Erica pauses considerately on the other side of the doorjamb, “Wanna annoy him into submission?”

Stiles smirks, even through his frustration and he nods.

They begin beating on the door together, two pairs of hands creating an absolute brawl of loud, quick raps raining down on the door with no semblance of rhyme or rhythm. They yell out for Isaac, both promising a swift retribution for his ill-timed bathroom hogging and pleading for him to get out.

As such, they don’t even hear the Sheriff coming in from his shift at work, too busy are they trying to pitch their voices into the tone that will most likely annoy Isaac.

“ _Quit_ it,” John barks from the top of the stairs.

All noise ceases.

Stiles and Erica stop immediately, turning to their father with identical looks of guilt. John looks immeasurably tired, face sallow and drawn, as he ambles towards them.

“You two shut it,” the Sheriff tells them as he trudges past. “And Isaac?”

From inside they hear a meek, hesitant, “Yeah?”  

It takes a second for Stiles to realise that the music from the other side of the door has stopped.

“Open the damn door.”

A second later the lock of the bathroom clicks open - but there’s no further movement from inside.

John barely pauses. He walks straight past his children, moving on to his bedroom, at the far end of the hall, with barely anything more than a self-satisfied grunt.

Stiles and Erica waste no time in squeezing themselves into the bathroom. It’s a spacious room, but not particularly so when there are three rambunctious teenagers sharing the space at once.

Isaac is by the sink, not looking the least bit contrite, but he does shuffle over to make room for his siblings.

Erica has to wipe the fogged up mirror with a towel, but then they all get straight to business: Erica vigorously cleansing her face, Isaac drying his hair and Stiles brushing his teeth.

It’s a tight fit, the three of them all vying for the mirror, but it’s nothing they haven’t done before.

“If we’re late,” Erica warns Isaac, patting her face with moisturiser. “I will end you.”

“We’re not going to be late,” Isaac dismisses easily, handing Stiles his electric razor even as he sticks his toothbrush in his own mouth.

“We have chemistry for first period,” Erica stresses, leaving the moisturiser to set. She lays out her brushes and picks up her SPF spray.

She vigorously sprays her own face before moving on to spray first Isaac and then Stiles in turn. They splutter in mild surprise but otherwise don’t protest, used to her way by now.

“This is all your fault, you know,” she tells Stiles mildly, strategically spraying the parts of his face not covered by shaving foam.

“How on earth,” Stiles asks indignantly, batting away her hands, “is that is my fault?”

“Harris hates you,” Isaac explains around a mouthful of toothpaste. “So he takes it out on us.”

“He hates us purely by association,” Erica agrees, swirling her foundation brush in the viscous liquid she’d pumped on to the back of her hand.

“Harris hates us because he’s a Douchelord McShitstain,” Stiles corrects, tipping his chin up as he presses the razor to the underside of his jaw. “Nothing to do with me.”

“Language,” the Sheriff wearily reminds them; he’s walking past the doorway and towards the stairs. He’s taken off his weapons and his over-jacket and he doesn’t even bother to glance into the bathroom as he heads towards the kitchen with a single-minded focus; slow and steady like the awakened dead.

Erica is putting golden bronzer over the lines of her jaw, for reasons indiscernible to Stiles, when he’s wiping a face cloth over his face. His facial expression accurately depicts this.

“It’s called contouring, Stiles,” she tells him with a weary sigh, looking through her bag for her blusher. “Read a book.”

“That doesn’t even make fucking sense,” he tells her reproachfully. “ _You_ read a fucking book. Also, get out. Both of you, I need to take a leak.”

“ _You_ get out,” Isaac tells him, fingers working in a silky mouse through his curls. “I was here first.”

“I was _born_ first,” Stiles counters. “And you’ve been in the bathroom for longer than I’d care to count.”

“Go use dad’s bathroom,” Erica suggests. “I’m not finished yet.”

“No-one is using dad’s bathroom,” the Sheriff tells them from the hall, as he ambles past on his return journey from the kitchen, hot mug of camomile tea cradled protectively in his hand. They hear their dad take a long sip of his tea before he sighs, satisfied.

“Dad is going to get some sleep,” he mutters longingly. “And no child of mine is coming any where near me for the next six glorious hours, understand?”

-

Stiles is nervous.

So entirely nervous at the prospect of speaking to Scott.

It’s stupid, he knows, because it’s _Scott._

But, then again, it’s also _Scott._

So, Stiles thinks, he’s entirely justified in being this nervous.

He’s in the cafeteria with Joshua and his siblings. The entire place is loud and messy. Loud, messy and _exactly_ what Stiles does not need right now.

His leg bounces incessantly as he picks at the skin of an orange, eyes flickering around the room, looking for that mop of hair belonging to his best friend.

Stiles hasn’t talked to Scott in a long time, not since the night of Lydia’s party.

They’ve kept their distance in school, but there’s only so much Stiles can do with awkward nods in the corridors and hesitant, barely-there smiles before he starts to go stir crazy. So he plans to corner Scott today, talk it out once and for all.

Erica is ignoring Stiles, as per usual, fiercely texting the horde of friends she’s gained and only absently eating her food. Isaac is beside Stiles, throwing his older brother concerned glances in between trying to still Stiles’ bouncing leg.

Stiles’ other best friend sits in front of him, methodically eating though his lunch - vegetables and carbohydrates neatly separated.

Joshua pokes his fork into the pasta and pauses, looking up at Stiles.

“Are you okay?” he asks, brows furrowing.

Stiles nods absent-mindedly, distractedly capping and re-capping the water bottle he ditched the orange for.

He practically shoots out of his seat the second Scott appears in the cafeteria. Stiles pushes his way through the crowd, grabbing Scott’s elbow and proceeding to herd him towards the exit to the quad before the kid even has a chance to react.

They’re just at the door when Lydia neatly slides in front of them, halting their progress.

Stiles stops abruptly, causing Scott to skid, crashing into his back.

Lydia sighs exasperatedly, pressing her lips together before she stares Stiles down, “Let him go.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, impatient even as his hand tightens around Scott’s arm. “I’m just going to talk.”

“Sure you are,” Lydia drawls. She looks to her cousin, “Get away from him.”

Scott looks put upon, but he shrugs Stiles off anyway, “We’re just going to talk. That’s all.”

“Do you remember the last time you were alone with him?” Lydia says, jerking an accusatory thumb in Stiles’ direction. She lowers her voice, aware that they’re still amongst the throng of people in the cafeteria. “He was going to _kill_ you, Scott.”

“In my defence,” Stiles says, matching Lydia’s hard stare with a sardonic raise of his eyebrows. He points at his best friend. “He was going to kill me first.”

Lydia ignores him, turns to Scott. “I’m coming with you.”

Scott sets his jaw, “I can look after myself.”

“I know that,” Lydia says, tipping her chin in defiance. “But I’m still coming with you. Just in case.”

Stiles rolls his eyes with an aggrieved sigh, muttering, “What are you going to do, glare me to death?”

“Maybe not,” Lydia tells him blithely. “But when I taser your balls you’re going to be wishing that I did.”

With that Lydia turns on her heel and marches out, red locks whipping Stiles in the face as he gapes after her.

-

They’re standing in a secluded area of the quad, shadowed and quiet.

Stiles is leaning against the wall, Lydia and Scott presenting a united front ahead of him.

Lydia and Stiles remain at a stalemate, glaring at each other.

“You’re evil,” Stiles mouths at her, with a narrow-eyed expression. “ _Evil_.”

Scott shuffles his feet, looking a little uncomfortable at the prospect of leading the conversation.

“So what do you want?” he eventually asks, glancing at Lydia before turning to Stiles. “I don’t understand what you want from us.”

“Preferably?” Stiles says, turning from Lydia and trying to inject as much sincerity into his voice as possible. “For you not to get killed.” Stiles licks his lips and shrugs helplessly, not knowing what else to do.

Scott doesn't look entirely convinced, “And you want to help how?”

“I know how unstable bitten werewolves can be during their first few moons,” Stiles says. He’s barely able to curb the impulse to press his hand to the claw-marked scars on his hip. His arm jerks against it anyway, trying to soothe the ivory-hot itch that scrabbles over the scar tissue, and Stiles tries to play it off as a casual move.

Lydia doesn’t notice, too busy glaring at Stiles, but Scott’s gaze drops to Stiles’ hip immediately, brow furrowing. He catches Stiles eye and it takes a second, just _one_ second, for his face to clear in understanding - and he looks more than a little scared.

Stiles shrugs again, working hard to keep a look of vulnerability from his face. “I can help, I _want_ to help – and that’s more than I could say for a lot of people out there.”

Scott cuts a look to his cousin, head tilting in question.

Lydia’s face changes in less than a moment, she shakes her head vigorously, “No.”

“We don’t have anyone else,” Scott insists, turning so that his back shields his and Lydia’s conversation from Stiles.

“We’ll _find_ someone else,” Lydia argues, face hardening. “ _Anyone_ else.”

“Rude,” Stiles mutters petulantly, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

She does have a point, he concedes. If Stiles was a werewolf he sure as hell wouldn’t want to be anywhere near a hunter, but it’s not like Stiles hasn’t gone out his way to protect them.

“I don’t trust you,” she tells him, shoving Scott out of the way.

“You did last week,” Stiles counters.

“Last week you weren’t trying to kill my cousin.”

“ _Alright_ ,” Scott interrupts sharply, silencing them both. “No one trusts anyone else - _that’s_ the problem.” He takes a deep breath, “Lydia,” he turns to her, doing a grand job of not being at all intimidated by her furious stare. “We can’t do this on our own. We need as much help as we can get. We can at least hear him out. I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he pauses, eyebrows rising, “I don’t want to hurt Allison.”

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath, catching the other two’s attention. He pushes himself off from the wall and settles, instinctively, at attention.

“Yeah,” he says. “About that …”

It’s hard, for Stiles, to see the way that Scott’s face crumples and dims the longer he speaks. Stiles gives them a quick, overly-simplified history of their families.

“We’re hunters,” Stiles says. “Our Families are some of the oldest from Europe.”

He smiles a little, thinking of his grandfather - who never fails to delight in describing their Family’s influence. ‘We won wars alongside the Capets,’ he always says, before leaning in - mischievous glint to his eye, ‘and partied _hard_ with the Medici.’

“How come I’ve never heard of the Stilinskis or the Argents?” Lydia asks, scepticism clear over her features.

“We assimilate,” Stiles answers easily, though he’s careful to remain vague.

Lydia has already done a bulk of her research on werewolf lore, so he skips over detailing the triad of werewolf classification, settling instead of placing emphasis on how Scott’s omega status is putting him in danger.

“Being an Omega doesn’t guarantee you’ll turn feral, Scott,” Lydia says to her cousin, alleviating some of the distress from Scott’s face. “Don’t let him try to convince you of that.”

It’s true, being an Omega is _not_ an inescapable path to lunacy. It heightens the possibility, yes, but bitten wolves can, in general, be more adaptive to being a lone wolf.

The risk is _high_ though, high enough for a family like the Argents to take any and all precautions against Omegas – especially ones freshly bitten. It’s not meant to be done, but the Argents have been working out of the black books for a long time now.

He tells them this, watches their expressions harden into fear and Stiles thinks: _finally_ – this is the kind of seriousness he’s been wanting from them.

“We-,” Lydia says, pauses, licks her lips. “I read that if we find the Alpha-, that _when_ we find the Alpha that bit Scott and he takes him out, that’s it. He’ll be human again, out of danger.”

They both turn hopeful eyes to him.

“One, that’s bullshit,” Stiles says, ticking off his fingers. “Two, that’s a stupid plan anyway and three, Peter Hale, the wolf who bit Scott, is already dead.”

Lydia and Scott freeze, staring at Stiles with wide eyes.

There’s a long, considering silence.

Then:

“Why the _hell_ ,” Lydia snaps, “did you not start off with _that_ piece of information _first_ , Stilinski?”

“I thought _maybe_ knowing I wasn’t going to straight up murder everyone was more pertinent to the conversation, _Martin,_ ” Stiles snaps back in retaliation, taking a deep breath. “My _god_ , woman.”

“Guys,” Scott interrupts half-heartedly, rolling his eyes even as he subconsciously drifts closer to Lydia. To Stiles he asks, “What about you? Is your family the same?”

“No,” Stiles shakes his head. “Of course not. I mean, I wouldn’t be telling you this if we were. I want to help, Scott, I _do_. But, buddy, I-,” Stiles sighs, hand rubbing over his forehead. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hide this from my dad.”

Scott nods, looking solemn and serious. “You can try though, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “But if he asks, I’m not going to keep lying to his face, I can’t do that.”

“Okay,” Scott breathes. “Okay. But – we can keep it between the three of us.”

Stiles hesitates, “We can’t keep it from my brother and sister.”

“Why not?” demands Lydia.

“Well, for starters,” Stiles says, gesturing to the thick pillar standing a little way away from them – where his idiot siblings have been hiding and eavesdropping since the start of their conversation. “They’re right there.”

-

It takes longer than Stiles would like to admit to convince everyone to calm down and work out a plan - the ‘plan’ being mission: save Scott’s ass.

“This is a stupid plan,” Erica and Isaac announce. "We're all gonna die, and this is a _stupid_ plan."

But it’s all for show, everyone in their little campfire knows that as long as Stiles is in, the twins will be right there with him.

Erica’s look is furious, but Stiles merely shrugs, silently promising to explain everything later.

Truthfully, he’s still trying to grapple with the fact that he is now, in effect, harbouring a werewolf.

He’s not going to deny the frisson of pleasure that it brings him, it being such a risky manoeuvre, but he’s also not ignoring just how dangerous this whole thing is.

“Why?” Scott asks him two days later.

They’re in Beacon Park, Scott teaching Stiles how to play lacrosse without looking like a douchetastic, overzealous seal.

“Why what?” Stiles says distractedly, wiping off the sweat on his brow with the hem of his sleeve.

“Why help me?” Scott says, levelling Stiles with a serious look.  

“Why not?”

“ _Stiles_.”

He sighs harshly, swinging the crosse between his fingers.

“You’re my friend,” he tells Scott awkwardly. “And, believe it or not, I do actually have a heart.”

“I never doubted that,” Scott says, and it makes Stiles hot all over with embarrassment.

He shrugs it off, swinging another ball into the net and, in an effort to diffuse the sudden influx of _feelings_ , coyly glances over his shoulder at his best friend, “You’re making me all flustered.”

“Cute,” Scott remarks dryly.

Stiles flashes a grin at him before picking up another of their stray Lacrosse balls with his Crosse.

It’s another moment before Scott speaks.

“Can I see?” he asks quietly, gesturing at Stiles’ hip when Stiles’ brow crinkles in confusion. “I mean, you- you don’t have to, obviously. But …”

Stiles rolls his eyes, shoving up his shirt to showcase the scars. They’re long and jagged, corded thick in the middle and a shade or two darker than Stiles’ natural skin tone. The lines continue on beneath the line of Stiles’ shorts, finishing just beneath the crease of his thigh – and it’s clear from a single glance that it was done by a wolf hand.

Scott looks overwhelmed, mouth dropped open to a neat ‘o’.

“Woah,” he breathes. Stiles sighs, counting down the seconds to when the pitying looks will commence. But, once again, Scott reaffirms why exactly it is that Stiles loves him so much.

“That’s so _fucking_ cool,” Scott enthuses, completely blindsiding Stiles. He shuffles forward, ducking in to get a closer look. “You look like you had a fight with Wolverine and lived to tell the tale.”

Stiles mouth drops open and he laughs, “I _know,_ right?”

“So who did it?”

Stiles’ stomach constricts, and his good mood evaporates – just like that. He picks another ball from the grass and chucks it – grimacing when it lands nowhere near the goal.

“No one,” he tells Scott. “Nobody you need to worry about. He’s gone.”

The smile drops from Scott’s face in phases, “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Don’t even. It’s cool.”

Scott sighs, before picking up a ball and vaulting over Stiles’ head to shoot - the ball lands solidly in the goal. Scott runs in circles, arms spread out, crowing victoriously.

“That’s cheating,” Stiles says, but he’s smiling. “Your biology is predisposed to be good at sports.”

“Oh, dude,” Scott grimaces. “Don’t remind me. What the hell am I going to do about Allison?”

“I’m telling you right now, that that’s a tremendously bad idea.”

“You’re always up for bad ideas,” Scott points out. “You’re Stiles the hypocrite, head advocate of the bad ideas club.”

Stiles stops, silently staring at Scott’s self-satisfied expression.

“You’re a _shitty_ friend, you know that?” Stiles tells him. “Your family does nothing but insult me, why do I hang out with you?”

“’Cos I’m your best bro,” Scott reminds him. He’s lining up a shot, so he entirely misses Stiles’ look of stupefied surprise behind him.

Stiles is hit with an enormous affection for the dork, wants to protect him at all costs.

“Scott,” Stiles calls.

His friend glances over his shoulder, face changing as soon as he sees the seriousness of Stiles’ disposition. 

“This isn’t _just_ hunting, alright?” he says. “Not for the Argents. This is a war against _every_ type of supernatural being there is, and they’re looking for any excuse whatsoever to kill you - and not even then,” Stiles adds, thinking of Derek’s family.

Because whatever is happening here in Beacon Hills is big.

Bigger than anything Stiles has ever known to happen within the Hunting community. He’s not stupid, he’s seen his father, late at night when he thinks the kids are asleep, Hunting files spread over the table, eyes clouded with worry as he mindlessly swirls honey-coloured whisky around and around the glass he’s poured it into.

“And if I can get through this and save your dorky ass, then you bet I’m gonna damn well try,” he tells Scott, earning a small, genuinely affectionate smile from his friend. “So whatever you do, be careful with Allison, alright? If you’re not thinking of yourself, then think of Lydia. Think of your mom – because I don’t think I can stand at your funeral, look your _mom_ in the eye and know that her son isn’t coming back.”

Scott swallows tightly, nodding.

“Okay,” he rasps. He clears his throat, saying more clearly, “Okay. Okay, what do I have to do?”

“We’ll get your control up first, convince Derek-,” Scott pulls a face. “Aw, Scotty,” Stiles wheedles. “C’mon, stop looking at me like that. He’s the only Alpha around.”

“Reclusive, socially inept Derek? Nephew of the psycho who bit me, Derek? The guy your _dad_ just arrested for the murder of his own sister?” Scott asks. “That Derek? Really, Stiles?”

“Hey,” Stiles protests weakly. “He was acquitted.”

“I’d rather do it on my own.” Scott says, unconvinced.

“Well, we can’t,” Stiles tells him. “There’s only so much I can teach you and-, and you don’t even have to be a part of his pack, really, you don’t _have_ to submit – we’re just using him for the time being.”

“You told me he’s a dick,” Scott reasons.

“Oh, he _is_ ,” Stiles nods vigorously, mouth screwed to the side. “I fucking hate the guy, he’s the biggest asshole this side of Atlanta.”

“So we’re trusting him?”

“We’re _using_ him,” Stiles stresses. “Just until you get your feet up under you, and then we’ll convince my dad not to let the Argents play werewolf piñata featuring you and a sharp broadsword.”

“Thanks for the support,” Scott drawls.

“You’re welcome,” is the peppy reply.

Scott shoots another ball, “You think that’ll work? With your dad?”

 _Probably not,_ Stiles thinks, but he smiles instead, smiling. “We’ll work something out.”

The lack of confirmation is not lost on Scott, and he just _looks_ at Stiles. As much as Stiles would like to say that Scott is a perpetual optimist, he knows that his friend is far more perceptive than he lets on.

He’s a realist. He hopes for the best, but ultimately he can recognise a dire situation for what it is. Stiles, for his part, has no idea how to react. He doesn’t know _how_ to reassure Scott. So, of course, with the awkwardness that only he can muster, he blurts, “Wanna hug it out?”

He’s joking.

Of course he’s joking.

He’s even started that embarrassed chuckle that usually accompanies the fervent heat of instant regret coursing through his body.

What Stiles most definitely does _not_ expect, though, is Scott’s easy, “Sure, man,” before he’s striding forward, bundling Stiles up in a hug.

Stiles doesn’t really hug people apart from his dad and Erica, and sometimes, very rarely, Isaac. He doesn’t really know what to do with all this simple affection from Scott, but –

If he holds on that little bit longer, squeezes that little bit tighter, well … nobody but Scott is here to see it.

-

Stiles is standing outside in the dark, days later, when he decides to call Zuri.

Zuri is what Stiles would call an enabler. He constantly jokes that that’s the only reason he keeps her around.

She’s from Florida, but is currently stationed in and around Europe. She met Stiles on the year she spent learning under his father when he was fifteen. And from _her_ Stiles learned the lore and history of East African Supernaturals in between getting drunk and watching reruns of FRIENDS until they both passed out.

His breath fogs up in the air as the dial tone drones on in his hear.

Stiles shivers, huddling closer to the darkness of the alcove he’s hiding in. Goddammit, he thinks, it’s supposed to be _warm_ in California.

He hangs up, and then calls again as he peeks at the street around the corner - but there’s nothing, not a peep. It’s ridiculously late at night and he’s been standing here for a long time, freezing his balls off, so he hopes this’ll be fucking worth it.

Stiles has biked here, not wanting to alert his siblings to the fact that he’d snuck out, and he's not looking forward to the journey home.

The phone finally picks up with a crisp click.

 _“What?”_ comes Zuri’s terse greeting.

“Hello to you too, asshole,” Stiles answers, careful to keep his voice low. “There’s a thing called cell-phone etiquette that you should probably read up on.”

“You had better be dead or dying, I swear to god, Stiles - it’s three in the morning.”

“It’s eight am,” Stiles tells her with a grin. “I checked. How’s Scotland?”

“Wet,” Zuri informs him moodily. “Miserable. Tiring. I was up all night chasing a stupid fucking selchidh who’s been causing havoc in Orkney.”

“Maliciously?” Stiles asks, peeking around the corner again, checking his watch.

A patrol car from the police department should be driving past right about now, he’s sure of it.”

“Not particularly,” Zuri says around a yawn. “Just annoying, y’know? It wasn’t too bad, in all honesty. We gave it its pelt back and it fucked off back to the ocean.”

“At least it went back,” Stiles comments, lowering his voice as, as predicted, the taillights from a police car shine upon the building on the opposite side of the road.

Stiles flattens himself to the brick wall behind him, trying to capitalise on the cover that the garage of the warehouse block he’s leaning against gives him.

“Why are you whispering?” Zuri demands. “What have you done?”

“There’s a thing.”

“A thing?”

“A thing I’m thinking of doing, but I should probably not be doing,” Stiles clarifies.

There’s a pause.

“Is it drugs?”

“We already did those.”

“Crap,” Zuri says, then she laughs, low and rough. “We actually have. Good times, huh?’

Stiles hums in agreement.

“So,” Zuri sighs. “What’s worse than drugs?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Of course you can’t,” she mutters, there’s a creak of Zuri’s bedspring and a long groan. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” Stiles says.

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh from the other end of the line.

“You’re gonna do it anyway, aren’t you?”

He already is, but Stiles doesn’t need to tell her that much.

“Well,” she says. “At least you can pretend that you tried to do the right thing.”

“My thoughts precisely,” he agrees, watching at the fading light from the police car wash over the street.

“I’m not gonna bail you out if you fall on your ass this time,” she warns.

“Lies,” Stiles laughs. “You would.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“I really wanna say don’t do it, whatever ‘it’ is,” she says carefully. “But if you _are_ going to do it - which let’s be honest here, you probably already are.”

Stiles looks at the building opposite, at the large bay windows that perch at the top of the industrial space-cum-loft, and the silhouette that intermediately wanders past.

“I’m not,” he lies.

“But if you _are_ ,” Zuri stresses; though they both know she doesn’t believe a word he’s saying. “Please be careful, kid.”

Instead of addressing the note of concern in her voice, Stiles rolls his eyes, forcing nonchalance into his voice.

“You’re barely three years older than I am, Zuri,” he says. “Calm your shit.”

“You’re a brat,” she mutters fondly. “Skype me later.”

Stiles is still standing outside Derek's loft some twenty minutes later, periodically tapping his cell against his mouth as he thinks. 

Scott is supposed to arrange a meeting with Derek in the next few days, to ask him about their arrangement - only, he hasn't made any move to contact the alpha. 

He's stalling and, Stiles would agree, with good reason. 

Stiles, however, doesn't want to take any risks regarding this.

He told Derek, when he saved his life, that he owed him one - and Stiles is absolutely going to hold him to that. 

Which is why he's here, standing in the shadiest part of Beacon Hills, by him-fucking-self, debating whether to text the man or not. 

Stiles might be reckless, but he's dutiful about it. He's done his research - getting Derek's number from his file as well as checking out the security measures his dad has placed on the man. 

For now, it seems only to be a patrol car passing by the loft every two hours on the dot. His father seems to have greatly diminished his surveillance on Derek. 

The patrol cars can be excused to Derek's arrest, but Beacon Hills is a small town and a werewolf would be bound to notice that much covert surveillance. Plus, Stiles figures, his dad is likely to be keeping his own eye on him. 

Eventually, Stiles decides to bite the bullet. Swiping his cell unlocked he sends Derek a text. 

 _‘You alone?’_ he asks. 

It takes a few minutes but Stiles gets, as an answer, a single _'?'_. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, fervently hoping that Derek at least gets _some_ enjoyment out of being so unnecessarily obtuse. 

He racks his brain trying to think of something that will let the other man know it's him, but still keep his identity hidden should anyone else pry into Derek's phone.

 _'Paper-cuts,'_ Stiles messages back. 

He doesn't get a reply. Not for long minutes. Annoyed and infuriated he sends text after text after text.

 _‘Why do you gotta be an ass?’_ Stiles sends first, closely followed by, _‘Let me in, jerkface’_ , and _‘Before someone sees me, goddamn it,'_ five minutes later; finishing with, _‘Please? My balls are freezing solid’_ and  _‘I think I see a little blue’_ followed by a line of sad-faced emoticons.

Stiles can just imagine the long, haggard sigh of frustration emanating from Derek and before long, there’s the droning buzz of the door of the loft’s building opening.

Stiles darts across the street, hidden away amongst the shadows and he finds that riding up the crickety, old elevator is far too ominous for his liking.

The elevator opens up to the top floor landing and Derek, standing in the door way of his apartment – arms crossed and face set in a solid frown, though it’s a little diffused by the soft grey pyjama pants and navy blue shirt the man is wearing.

Stiles squeezes past Derek, walking in uninvited and ignoring the man’s glare.

He stands in the middle of the large living space, taking in the kitchen tucked away into one corner, the couch, the rumpled bed and the opened book lying face down on top of the pillow.

There’s a light on the bedside table, but Derek’s turned on the overhead lights too, making the night outside the window seems thick and solid.

“Nice place,” Stiles comments, swinging his arms to clap his hands in front of him.

“What do you want?” Derek asks tightly.

“Straight to the point,” Stiles says, pointing at Derek. “I like that about you.”

Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles thinks that he’ll have to try a little harder to butter him up.

Stiles sighs, turning serious all at once, “Scott McCall.”

Derek quirks his eyebrows in question, folding his arms across his chest once more.

“My friend,” Stiles elaborates, “who was bitten, by your crazy Uncle, might I add.”

Derek takes a deep, cleansing breath and turns around to slide the loft’s door shut, ignoring the comment.

Stiles twitches in places, not sure whether that’s a good thing or not.

But it seems like luck is in his favour, as Derek seems disinclined to maul him to death.

“Okay,” Derek says to Stiles. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“He’s an Omega,” Stiles says. And then he rushes forward at the sight of Derek’s face twisting, hand splayed in front of him in supplication, “No, no, no – just listen to me. I need you to protect him.”

“Listen to you?” Derek replies incredulously. “You grow up being repulsed by werewolves and now you want to protect one?”

“There you go,” Stiles sighs, “making inaccurate preconceptions once again.”

“Am I supposed to think you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?” Derek asks dryly, sardonicism thick and heavy in his expression.

Stiles throws his hands to his sides, spluttering, “I could be!”

Derek sighs.

“He’s in _danger_ , Derek.”

“I thought you Stilinskis prided yourselves on not killing the innocent.”

“We do,” Stiles says. “And we don’t, but we both know that the Argents do. He’s an _Omega_.”

Stiles doesn’t really need to say anything else.

“Why, then?” Derek questions, sharp eyes on Stiles. "Why protect him?"

But Stiles can’t really answer. Can’t explain, to _Derek_ of all people, just how much he cares about Scott. How it feels right, to have Scott by his side, and how despite him being a werewolf, he fits right along in in Stiles’ heart – beside his family and Elliot and Zuri and Joshua.

“That’s …” Stiles deflects, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“Need to know?” Derek asks with lift of his brows.

“Yes.”

“ _Need_ to know?” Derek repeats slowly.

“ _Yes._ ”

Derek’s expression turns mocking and bitter all at once, “Are you fucking him? Is that it? ”

“Scott’s straight,” Stiles says, eyebrows rising in the sudden turn of Derek’s mood.

“But you’re not?”

Stiles flushes, the skin beneath his cheekbones growing red and hot, “That’s not the point.”

Derek smirks, evidently glad to have made Stiles embarrassed.

“The _point_ ,” Stiles stresses. “The point is that I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t trust you either,” Derek tells him easily.

“Good,” Stiles says, rubbing his cheeks to rid himself of the lingering heat. “We’re on the same page - but the fact of the matter remains that Scotty is still a werewolf. I need _your_ help to stop hunters from poking him,” Stiles avidly demonstrates by thrusting his hand back and forth, “with a sharp, metal stick until he gushes his little brains out.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “How compassionate of you.”

“I try,” Stiles nods. “So you take Scott in and you get a great new werewolf best friend to care for and protect, or whatever it is that you do in your little werewolf gatherings, and I get some peace of mind. Also,” Stiles adds delicately, peeking from beneath his eyelashes. “You owe me one.”

“I saved your life first,” Derek reminds him.

Stiles wishes Derek would really stop with the fact checking, it’s really putting a downer on his persuasion skills.

“You get a new werewolf best friend,” Stiles repeats, ignoring Derek’s long-suffering sigh, the pinch of his nose. “And I get some peace of mind.”

There’s a long silence.

“What’s the catch?”

Stiles reserves the need to fist pump, trying to keep his grin contained he says, “He doesn’t really want to be tied down to a pack.”

Derek looks like he’s going to argue, but taps down on it at the last minute, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip - looking frustrated beyond all belief.

“I haven’t been approached,” he says through gritted teeth, “by Scott.”

“He’s nervous,” Stiles says.

“Nervous,” Derek echoes. Stiles nods. “Why would he be nervous?”

“Because you look like a fucking serial killer,” Stiles tells him.

Derek rolls his eyes; breathing deeply, his broad chest expands with the movement, biceps bulging as he crosses his arms. Stiles just barely resists the urge to groan.

He shakes his head to clear it, focusing once more, “Scott’s been thrown into the supernatural world with no warning, through no fault of his own. A fault that belongs to your psychotic Uncle, just as a by the bye.”

Derek levels him with a hard, unforgiving glance. “Do you keep saying that because you think I actually need reminding,” he spits, “or are you always this much of an insensitive dick?”

That pulls Stiles up short, breath catching in his throat.

He’s been doing it to try to incite some responsibility, or at least some guilt, in Derek by way of his Uncle’s actions – which is a valid tactic, Stiles supposes, when he wants to save the life of his best friend. But he hadn’t really _thought_ about the consequences of continually bringing up the mental state of the guy’s former last-remaining relative.

“Uh,” Stiles says, shrugging helplessly. “Sorry, I guess? My condolences and I-, I hope he rests in peace and stuff.”

Derek glares at Stiles, eyes brimming with uncontained aggravation, and Stiles is intensely, viscerally reminded that Derek killed his Uncle.

Shit.

And that his Uncle most probably murdered his sister.

Shit and _shit_. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles winces.

“Of course you are,” Derek mutters, and he suddenly looks much older – much more tired. “Is that all you’ve got to convince me?”

“Scott makes really great brownies,” Stiles chirps, grinning in an effort to alleviate his giant foot-in-mouth disease. “And he always loses at Halo, so, y’know, you’ll get the gift of a guaranteed boasting win.”

Derek looks unimpressed.

“Look, I don’t _know!_ ” Stiles explodes. “What do you want me to say, Derek? What do you want me _do?_ ”

The other man, of course, stays annoyingly silent. Stiles steps up towards him, arms flailing wildly at his side.

“What is it, huh?” he snaps, and then, because he’s an idiot, he continues, “You want me to get on my knees and beg, is that it? You want me to suck your cock and say _please_?”

And Derek –

Derek just _freezes_ , eyes darting down to Stiles’ mouth and straight back up again in guilt. Stiles wouldn’t have even noticed had he not been standing a hair’s breadth away from the man.

Derek’s cheeks tinge pink beneath his stubble. He coughs and takes several steps backwards, looking anywhere but at Stiles, hand cuffing at the pink tip of his ear.

Like a kitten, Stiles thinks, like an adorable, _guilty_ kitten.

Once Derek gains enough space between he and Stiles, he starts speaking – telling Stiles that he’ll consider a time for him to meet Scott, for Scott to meet Derek’s betas.

But Stiles isn’t even listening anymore. He’s standing frozen in the same spot, eyes on Derek’s face, mouth catching on a grin.

“I’ll consider it,” Derek says, eyes flickering up to Stiles and off again. “I’m not making any promises, but I’m not risking the safety of my pack to keep you happy.”

The silence is deafening, and Derek jerks, making a half abandoned movement to turn and open the door of the loft.

Stiles coughs lightly, grabbing the other man’s attention.

“You want me to suck your cock, Derek?” he asks, smiling slowly as he carefully approaches him. “Because I would, you know? You just have to say the word.”

Derek catches Stiles’ eye, gaze hardening, “You think I want to- that I can be _bought_ _out?_ ” he balks. “Convince me to help Scott because of a few sexual favours?”

“This isn’t about Scott,” Stiles tells him, inching closer. “It’s not about sexual favours or about _owing_ you one,” he reaches forward, hooking his fingers in Derek’s sleep pants, pulling him closer. “Maybe I just wanted to get all up in this for a while now.”

“I’m not interested in your transactions,” Derek says. He’s holding himself stiffly, arms still hanging awkwardly at his sides, but he’s not pushing Stiles away.

“It’s not a transaction,” Stiles says, voice hushed.

They’re standing so close together now; chests brushing against each other with each careful inhale.

“No?”

Stiles smiles, leaning in that little bit closer, lips brushing over Derek’s mouth as he carefully unties the knotted cord of Derek’s pyjamas.

“Nope.”

The string loosens with a soft, barely audible _swoosh_ , and Derek seems to stop breathing altogether. Stiles looks down between the millimetres of space between them, hands spread big and warm over Derek’s hips.

“What is it then?” Derek asks, tipping forward to meet Stiles before remembering himself and pulling back a little.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” Stiles says, meeting Derek’s eyes.

“Stiles,” Derek warns, rough voiced.

“If you want me to stop,” Stiles interrupts, voice barely rising for fear of breaking this moment. “Then I will.”

He searches Derek’s eye for a moment, his heart beating hard and fast against his ribcage – so hard it almost hurts.

This is probably the worst thing Stiles has ever done, but also quite likely, the best.

He squeezes Derek’s hips, feeling the solid muscle beneath all of that soft, warm cotton. Stiles licks his lips, waiting.

The space between them is fraught with tension, the late night outside just as still as Derek and Stiles are.

Then it comes - that small, subtle nod of Derek’s head. Stiles tries to contain his smile, but he doesn’t quite manage to catch it in time, so he ducks his head, trying to hide it.

He wants to kiss Derek, to feel his mouth, the warmth of him from inside out but that – that’s not what this is.

He sinks to his knees slowly, palms flat and curious as they trace the lines of muscles in Derek’s thighs, his ass; sneaking under his sleep-soft shirt to skim over the warm skin.

Thick fingers sink into Stiles’ hair then, and his breath shortens in his throat when he glances up to catch Derek’s heavy gaze.

Stiles gently kneads the bulge beneath the cotton, the outline of Derek’s dick clear from this distance, and Derek’s fingers tighten, just slightly, in his hair - fingertips drawing circles upon circles on Stiles’ scalp.

Stiles hooks his fingers in Derek’s pyjamas, exhaling a slow breath through his teeth as he reveals more and more of Derek’s cock.

He moves tantalisingly slow, pulling down the soft cotton until the head of Derek’s dick catches and frees, smacking gently against the underside of Stiles’ jaw.

Derek’s not fully hard yet, but already he’s quite impressive. Thick and uncut, his dick's a little more tan than his skin tone - a warm and solid weight in Stiles’ hand.

Stiles jacks Derek off slowly, leaning forward until he’s licking at Derek’s balls, rolling them over his tongue, gaze travelling up Derek’s body to lock on to the man’s face.

Derek’s flushed now, mouth open and red, his fingers almost absently carding through Stiles’ hair.

With a thumb stroking over the faintly wetted slit of Derek’s cock, Stiles licks a long, broad stripe from the base up to the top, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the smooth head.

Derek’s breath rushes out of him, rough and debilitated; and he urges Stiles, with the hands cupping his head, to take him into his mouth.

Stiles does so eagerly. He sticks to shallow strokes at first, he hasn’t done this in a long time and choking would be the third most embarrassing thing that he could do with Derek’s dick in his mouth – he’s always had a sensitive gag reflex anyway.

With one hand braced on Derek’s thigh and the other on the man’s cock, slowly pulling the foreskin over the shaft and back again, Stiles eases into a rhythm.

He takes more and more of Derek into his mouth, lapping at the underside of the glans.

Derek rocks on the balls of his feet. Small little curls of his body that drive him deeper and deeper into Stiles mouth, punched out groans smoothed out into heavy breaths.

Stiles looks up, eyes voraciously taking in Derek’s expression – the flush of his skin, the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks, the way his bottom lip is trapped between his teeth.

It's too much and Stiles’ hands scrabble at his jeans, hastily undoing his trousers, unceremoniously shoving his hand inside his boxers. He pulls himself out, exposing his dick to the air, and he moans – vibrations travelling over the shaft of Derek’s cock.

Derek’s breath hitches in his throat, fucking faster and deeper into Stiles mouth, helpless little groans slipping past the grit of his teeth.

He hits the softness of Stiles’ throat, making him gag. Stiles pulls back, lips hot and tingling, as he catches his breath. Derek’s chest is heaving; his hand is a solid presence cradling Stiles’ jaw as they look at each other, thumb just testing the hinge of it.

Derek’s thumb marks a path across Stiles’ mouth, dipping inside to hook over his bottom teeth and gently pull his mouth open.

He fills Stiles with his cock, until there are tears smarting his eyes, lips stretched taut across warm skin. Derek fucks into him in long, smooth strokes and Stiles – he just melts into it.

He leans the weight of his head in the cradle of Derek’s palms, eyes fluttering shut as Derek’s cock fills his mouth to the point of bursting, and his own hands expertly work over his dick.

Derek’s getting closer to his climax, the jerk of his hips is that little bit rougher, the lust in his eyes that little bit fuller. Stiles furiously strips his hands over himself – one hand teasing the smooth, bulbous head as he fucks himself through the tight grip of the other.

Stiles is ready for Derek to come, thanking the high heavens for werewolfkind’s immunity to human ailments. But Derek pulls out at the last minute, rough hand in Stiles’ hair yanking his head back, exposing his throat.

Derek climaxes with a long, feverish groan - with strings of come striped over Stiles’ swollen lips, his jaw, the line of his throat. He can only watch, with hazy, half-lidded eyes, the look on Derek’s face – a deep-seated fulfilled satiation.

It’s a show of dominance, Stiles knows, for Derek to mark him like this, but he’s not intimidated.

He blinks open his eyes, catching Derek’s gaze before he carefully, deliberately licks his lips clean, tongue darting out to catch a droplet of come in the corner of his mouth.

Derek sucks in a sharp breath, eyes on Stiles as he begins to work himself to completion. It doesn’t take him long at all, just Derek’s fingers  grasping his chin tightly and his voice rough and low, marvelling, “Look at you.”

 _Look at me,_ Stiles thinks, lips curling back over his teeth in a smile as his breath hitches and he gushes all over the floor, fisting himself through it.

He stays like that, eyes closed and thighs trembling, until Derek moves away and takes the heat of his body with him.

All at once, reality comes crashing down on Stiles.

He blinks his eyes open, taking a look around the sparse, empty living room. He takes a deep breath, the silence seems too heavy now he’s the only one here - encroaching and rough.

He feels sticky and gross, and a hot wash of unease comes over him. Stiles tucks himself back into his jeans automatically, mechanically. With each passing second he becomes more and more aware of the gummy tackiness of come over his cheeks and his throat, the cool air of the apartment intensifying the unpleasantness of the feeling.

He wipes at his mouth harshly, face twisting into guilt-ridden misery.

Stiles is ineffectively wiping at his neck with the flap of his hoodie when a warm washcloth hits the side of his face.

Derek is standing by the twisting metal steps of the loft, shoulders stiff and expression guarded. Stiles cleans himself quickly, silently. Before pulling himself up on unstable, stiff knees.

He carefully walks over to where Derek is standing, eyes averted, cloth held out like an offering. The air between them is charged with tension, agonisingly fraught tension.

It feels like an age and a day until Derek’s hand reaches for the cloth. His fingers only faintly brush across Stiles’, but it’s enough to make his heart beat faster in his chest.

“Got what you came for?” Derek asks, calm and quiet. But something about it, about the _way_ that he says it, that makes Stiles feel hot prickles shame stinging at his skin.

Looking into Derek’s eyes takes a lot of courage, but he takes a deep breath and does just that.

“That’s not what I came for,” he says, “and you know it.”

Derek’s mouth tightens, eyes jerking away from Stiles’ gaze as he takes a step back.

Stiles figures that that’s a good dismissal as any and he leaves.

He doesn’t even realise that he’s taken the stairs until he’s halfway down the building, heart beating fast and hard against his ribs.

The night air is frigid, a shock after the heat he shared with Derek just a few floors above.

Stiles huddles against one of the dark alcoves on the ground level - quickly unlocking his phone to call Zuri.

This time, when she answers she seems much more awake.

“Hey, kiddo,” she greets. Stiles can practically hear the smile in her voice and it eases the nerves in his stomach some. “Have you butt-dialled me again? I’ve told you about putting your phone in your back pocket.”

Stiles laughs, “Not a butt-dial.”

“You alright?”

Stiles sighs, and it takes a little while to unstick his tongue from the dryness of his mouth in order to speak properly.

“I slept with someone I shouldn’t have.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

Then - 

“It’s not even been two hours!” Zuri explodes and Stiles’ hand goes straight to his face, palm dragging down in embarrassment.

“I know.”

“I talked to you _ninety minutes ago_ , _”_ she continues, tinny voice screeching over the speakers. “I can’t leave you alone for _ninety fucking minutes_ , my god, _Stiles_.”

He winces, mumbling into his palm, “I know.”

Zuri is quiet for several moments, presumably calming herself down. Stiles hears her take deep breaths.

“Is this the same thing as the thing you were thinking of doing but really should not be doing?”

“It’s peripherally connected?” Stiles says, lilting his voice in question at the end. “I don’t even know, Zuri," he sighs. "It happened by chance, because I was trying to do the other thing. I didn’t plan it.”

“Okay,” Zuri says. “So, uh, guy or girl?”

“Guy, this time.”

“Older?” she questions.

“No,” Stiles says, before hesitating. “Well, yeah - but not how you’re thinking.”

Zuri sighs, “Do you regret it?”

“No, I-,” Stiles pauses, shuffling his feet as he leans back against the brick wall. He licks his lips. “I kind of want more; a _lot_ more.”

“Okay,” she says again. “I’m just going to go out on a limb here, and assume that this is someone your dad wouldn’t approve of, right?”

Stiles barks out a bitter laugh, too loud and brittle in the night air; he turns, pressing his forehead to the wall. “Understatement of the century.”

“Stiles,” Zuri says, she sounds so concerned that it aches. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No,” Stiles laughs again, thumping his head against the brick. “But I’ve already fucked up, so what’s it matter? We both know I’m still gonna to do it anyway.”

Stiles bites his lip, thinking of the look on Derek’s face tonight. He closes his eyes, shaking his thoughts away before he says goodbye to Zuri and heads back home.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shall be edited tomorrow morning, but _dude_ my bed is calling me.  
>  Also, you should go check out Paolo Nutini's albums on Youtube (Sunny Side Up and his new one, Caustic Love) because he's my favourite and helped me write this whopper of a chapter. He's Scottish and really really cute, like seriously, super cute. And his voice is to die for - what more could you want?!  
> See you all soon!


	8. Zion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BACK!  
> But seriously though, how many times can I make that joke before you all leave me?  
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter, and I will try to update with more regularly! 
> 
> Warnings for: heavy discussion of murder/police investigation/ritual sacrifice, as well as underage shenanigans of the sexual nature. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me guys :)

You will discover that when victims live long enough, they get their say in history.

**Kei Miller**

-

Stiles spends the entirety of the next day worrying. The pads of his fingers are incessant in the way they beat soft-sounded patterns on tables, his jean-clad knees, his skin. His father watches him steadily over the dinner table and the twins, on either side of him, don’t miss the tension that’s folding over.

A quiet meal it is, the sounds of cutlery against china, glass on wood, the monotonous tick-tick-tick of the clock mounted on the wall.

When the meal ends and Isaac is assigned to dishwashing duty, Stiles hesitantly follows his father to the office.

He folds himself into the chair, eyes avoiding his father’s presence on the other side of the desk, and bites at his thumbnail.

Stiles doesn’t really know what to say, or how to even approach this conversation; he’s spent the last few days trying to figure out which truths to avoid in order to a) not get killed by his dad, b) be brought back to life by his father only to be killed more grievously by his dad, and c) protect Derek from also being (legitimately) killed by the Sheriff.

Wanting to protect Derek from certain death isn’t the problem here; it’s the fact that Stiles is compromising himself and his own agenda in order to protect him. That goes against _everything_ that Stiles has made of himself, and he doesn’t entirely know how to stop.

Stiles tells himself that it’s because he likes the way that Derek’s rough hands feel cupping his cheek, the solid warmth of his cock, the redness of his mouth – because people feel attached to the people they fuck, don’t they? But he knows it’s more than that, and that it started even before Stiles ran his hands over Derek’s body. It’s about how big and lonely Derek looked amongst the ruins of his home, the slight flinch in his shoulders that he tried to hide every time he mentioned his family, the way that he went out of his damn way to protect Stiles – a _hunter_.

So Stiles sits here, in the big chair in front of his father, prepared to lie just enough to protect one man.

The Sheriff watches him intently, fingers interlaced and placed carefully on the solid surface of the desk.

“I’m not going to pretend that I know everything that goes on in that big head of yours,” John starts, clearing his throat before he continues. “But you’ve got that look about you, kid, so I know I’m not going to like it.”

Stiles squirms in his chair, glances up at his father, holds it, glances away again – hesitant and carefully articulated; he has to sell this, after all.

“I went for a run, a few days ago,” Stiles says, pressing his lips together. “I wanted- I, I wanted to check out the Hale house.” He stops, fingers scratching dully at his jaw as John’s face hardens, and his posture goes perfectly rigid. It’s not much, in terms of gesture, but to Stiles, his father may as well be puce red in the face, arms raised by his sides, as if cordially inviting him to understand the sheer magnitude of his anger.

Stiles touches his tongue to his upper lip, “I was ambushed.”

His father’s eyes snap to Stiles’. “You were _ambushed?_ ”

"Dad,” Stiles says weakly, voice puttering off weakly as his father curls his hands into fists – radiating a seething anger. “Please, calm down."

"Calm down?" the Sheriff repeats tensely. “You’re telling me to calm _down?”_

Stiles shakes his head and tries to nod at the same time. "I-You know what? Just take your time. However long you need, no rush."

“Stiles-,” his father says warningly, but all the anger in his voice is shaded with weariness and Stiles feels - horrible.

“Dad,” he says, reaching forward, untangling his long legs to place them on the floor. “Dad, I’m _sorry_. I just- I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You didn’t know how to tell me you were attacked right under my nose, Stiles?” his dad snaps. “You follow protocol, _that’s_ what you do.”

“I knew you’d get mad-”

“ _Of course!_ ” The Sheriff snaps, hand slapping on the desk so hard it makes Stiles flinch. “Of course I’d get _mad, Stiles_ , when I have a child who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

Stiles glances away, remembering, with unease settling in his gut, the look on Derek’s face when he’d asked Stiles, tight and vulnerable – _‘Do you think this is a joke? Did you want to rub it in my face?’_

“I just wanted to see,” Stiles says, and it sounds weak, even to his own ears.

“You and I,” his dad replies, grave, “both know that grief is a very volatile thing, Stiles. It doesn’t bode well to antagonise, purposefully or not, someone who has been affected by that amount of grief. Especially not a-” John stops abruptly, gaze locking with his son’s. The sentence drops and that last word remains unsaid, but Stiles recognises for what it is anyway; _werewolf_ , he hears it loud and clear, and his stomach drops.

The Sheriff blinks twice, composes himself, says, “Don’t go looking for anymore trouble.”

“But I didn’t go _looking_ for trouble,” Stiles insists.

“Well, you found it,” the Sheriff says, more than a little harsh - hard-edged voice like a string pulled too tight. “You certainly seem to have a knack for finding it.”

Stiles doesn’t flinch, exactly, but he can’t deny how hurt he feels. His father must see something in his expression, his face softens but he doesn’t apologise, doesn’t say ‘I didn’t mean it like that’, because that would be a lie and they both know it.

Stiles swallows tightly, biting off a mulishly sarcastic, “Apologies for not presuming a gigantic lizard would crash my party,” under his breath, like a scorned child.

The Sheriff goes rigid and, in consequence, so does Stiles. He’d forgotten to account for his father’s peculiarly acute sense of hearing.

Carefully the Sheriff asks, “What?”

There’s a pause, wherein Stiles tries – and fails – to conjure up a suitable response. He presses his lips together and raises his brows, repeating meekly, “What, what?”

“What did you just say?”

“The thing I just said?” Stiles asks, pointing over his shoulder, eyes wide in feigned innocence.

“Yes, Stiles,” his dad replies. “The thing you just said.”

“Well,” Stiles bites his lip. “It was definitely the thing I said last.”

His father sends him a flat look, all but rolling his eyes, “Spare me your riddles, son.”

“Ah,” Stiles says, lifting a finger. “But _is_ it a riddle when I don’t know what it is that I’m supposed to be riddling?”

“Stop deflecting,” his father tells him. “You said ‘gigantic lizard’.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“I mean, it was green, and- and lizard-like,” Stiles says, and then he widens his arms to illustrate, “and very, very big.” He nods seriously, “So I think gigantic lizard is a pretty accurate description, yeah.”

Stiles expects to see some amusement in his father’s face or, at the very least, some annoyance – but what he does see is shrewd calculation clouding his father’s face.

“You got a good look at it? The thing that attacked you?” the Sheriff asks, and at Stiles’ hesitant nod, he reaches down to the second drawer of his desk, pulling out a large, thick book.

The pages are glossy and white, and the cover is a deep sapphire blue, the Stilinski crest embossed on the front. The Sheriff consults the index before turning to a page and turning the book over to Stiles.

“Is this what you saw?” his dad asks, pointing at a sketch of something that looks remarkably like the thing that attacked Stiles; not the exact same – the shape of the head and the claws are definitely different, and its stance – belly low to the floor – is more animal than it was humanoid. Stiles says as much, eyes drifting over to the neat block of letters beside the image.

Kanima, it says, -

_Origin: unknown; approx. number: unknown; species: unknown._

-

Stiles’ father picks up two bulky files from his safe, they’re thicker even than Derek’s, older too, by the looks of it. He places them on his desk before crossing the room to his locked file cabinet; from there he takes out another folder, placing it in front of Stiles.

The Stilinski crest is placed on the corner, and beneath that is a label with the word ‘Kanima’ penned across it in Stiles’ grandfather’s familiar penmanship.

The Sheriff sits back on his chair, regards Stiles heavily.

“The things I’m going to show you,” he tells him, “they’re very gruesome; corpses, mutilation and god knows what else. I need to know that you can take it, that you’ll be respectful, and that you’ll be objective.”

“Of course,” Stiles says instantly, scooting around the desk to move closer to his dad, shoulders brushing against each other; curiosity itches at his skin.

His father regards him dully.

“I mean,” Stiles rectifies. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

The Sheriff breathes deep, pulling the thickest file towards them and opening it up.

The first thing that Stiles notices is the date – April 1983, and a stamp indicating ‘Unsolved’.

“In the April of this year,” John begins, tapping a finger against the faded ink, “three girls between the ages of fourteen and seventeen were found murdered, all from three different towns all within Beacon County.” He points to three pictures of dead girls lying on a morgue slab, “Caitlin Hamilton, seventeen, from Fairview; Violet James, sixteen, from Oldbrook; and Heather Morris, fourteen, from Beacon Hills.”

The pictures are grainy, not to the standard that Stiles is used to, but it’s still easy enough to see the ligature marks on their necks, the bluish tone to the tips of their fingers, their hair mottled with blood from, presumably, blunt force trauma.

“Were they human?” Stiles asks, because as tragic as this case seems to be, his father and their Family don’t investigate common human murder.

“Yes,” the Sheriff says, fielding Stiles’ look of surprise. “They were human and ignorant of the Supernatural as far as we’re aware. Their deaths are what we’re interested in. It’s a threefold death: strangled, throat slashed, blunt force trauma to the head.”

Stiles flicks a page, examining the pictures of the corpses. “I still don’t understand how this connects to us.”

“These girls were almost drained of their blood, pinpricks on their pulse points came from syringes, not teeth,” the Sheriff tells Stiles, “but these stains on their fingers, see here? This is pokeweed.”

Stiles’ brows rise.

“You know what it’s used for?” The Sheriff prompts.

“A cleansing agent,” Stiles says. “It’s supposed to purge the body of evil spirits if you prepare it right. But you’re not supposed to _eat_ it.”

“Prepared incorrectly,” Stiles’ dad continues, “or correctly, if the case may be, pokeweed can cause death. It’s used in sacrificial rites.”

Stiles looks at his father, “So we’re looking for a witch?”

“A druid,” the Sheriff corrects. “More specifically a darach. The primary suspect for the human side of this case was a woman named Jennifer Blake, a school teacher.”

Stiles grins crookedly, bumping his shoulder into his dad’s, “What did _you_ find out?”

John riffles through the file, finding a picture of a woman in her late twenties; long brown hair pinned back and falling in curls over her shoulder, a mean smirk on her lips.

“Julia Baccari,” his dad tells him. “Druid turned Darach in the seventies. She was a drifter, moved from place to place, staying in luxury apartments for no longer than a few months at a time, which tells you, what?”

“She was a druid for hire.”

“A druid for hire,” the Sheriff agrees, sharing a proud smile with Stiles. “We found her, brought her in for questioning. Now – the three victims,” John continues, more sombrely, “They were found in the woods, all three of them placed together beneath some camping tarp-”

“So what,” Stiles interrupts, “they were being preserved?”

“We think so,” the Sheriff says, tapping on the file. “The victims all had blood taken, their nails trimmed to the quick, their hair unevenly cut, so we presume that a lock was taken. This was all done post-mortem, most likely. There was barely a day between the girls going missing and them being found.” John pauses delicately, “This wasn’t just a sacrifice.”

“A harvest?” Stiles questions, belly swooping with nausea. “Of- of humans?”

“Perhaps,” his dad says. “But I was leaning more towards experimentation. Blake disappeared from the precinct she was being kept in, and the bodies of the three victims all disappeared from the morgue they were being kept in - merely hours after the initial examination. There wasn’t even an autopsy or a toxicology report.” The Sheriff closes the 1983 file, pulling up the other one before regarding Stiles keenly, “You doing alright?”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Just about.”

“Now,” Stiles’ dad continues, spreading out a series of pictures. “This happened four more times, could have been Blake, but it might not have been. In 1997, twins Ethan and Aiden Catton were found dead at twenty-five beside a motorway just outside of Nevada. In 1999, a girl named Paige Simkovich was found in East Los Angeles; 2003 was a girl named Danielle Hunt, in Beasley, on the inner border of Beacon County. Finally, 2005, a group of three found were in the preserve, all in the mid to late thirties and going by the names of Henry Duke Allienz, Kali Sidhaqat and Jack Ennis.”

Stiles bites his lip, “Is there any correlation between the victims?”

“They were all werewolves,” the Sheriff reveals. “Every single one of them.”

Stiles tenses, “Werewolves?”

“Werewolves,” John nods. “Following the same M.O., they all suffered the same trauma, and they all disappeared within hours of being found.”

Stiles furrows his brows, pulling the file towards him, “ _Why_ were they found, though? If whoever killed them could make them disappear so effectively, why risk it going through the cops first, through _hunters_?”

“But,” John says to Stiles. “That’s assuming that whomever did the killing and whomever got rid of the bodies are one and the same.”

“They _weren’t?_ ” Stiles asks, hurriedly reading through the highlighted notes on the page in front of him.

“You have to have a lot of power to overpower a young werewolf,” his dad reminds him. “But you need a hell of lot more to come up against a pack of three alphas.” He indicates the picture of the three alphas in question: Henry, Kali and Ennis – their skin sallow and tight against their skulls, eyes closed, though looking anything but peaceful. “They were here to visit the Hales,” Stiles’ dad continues. “As a courtesy call, so to speak. We think they were ambushed on their way out of town. A deliveryman on his way into town found them in the early mornings of the next day. Same thing as the others, blood taken, nails clipped, hair missing. They disappeared thirteen hours later.”

“So,” Stiles says, thinking hard. “It seems to be centralised here, in Beacon. And these aren’t just murders then, if they’re taking things from their bodies – they need them for something. But why the change from human victims to werewolf?”

“This is where the Kanima comes in,” the Sheriff says, and honestly, Stiles had all but forgotten about why they were having this conversation in the first place. “Hand me that file.”

The dossier on the Kanima is very thin, but Stiles isn’t all that surprised – many of the Supernatural creatures out there have very limited, very sparse information on them.

“A Kanima,” the Sheriff tells him, “is a very rare breed of shape shifter. They’re not like werewolves, they’re more of a …” John presses his lips together, trying to think of an appropriate term.

“An abomination?” Stiles tries.

“A _mutation_ ,” his father amends, “of the werewolf genetic code. We’re not entirely sure why they mutate in certain individuals, but just that they do. We can’t get a consistent read on them because the Kanima gene, so to speak, is individual to its specific carrier and, of course, they’re very rare. The last known one was captured and killed in 1827, in Brazil.” The photo that the Sheriff shows Stiles features a man in a suit vest and rolled up shirtsleeves, a bloodied sword in one hand, and the tail of a Kanima on the other. On the ground is the dead Kanima, face turned away from the camera, with a tuft of short coarse-looking, tightly packed hair running over it’s spine, like a horse’s mane.

“A Kanima is created through a werewolf bite, and nothing else. It cannot pass on the bite, and it lives only to destroy; but it does answer to a master.”

Stiles swallows tightly, shifting in his chair; he hopes to god his father doesn’t notice, because Stiles, he’s thought of that before, right? When he was with Derek, when he was _protecting_ Derek.

“Then,” Stiles says, “if it answers to a master, and it was at the Hale house – is it after Hale?” He swallows, trying not to examine the tightness in his chest too closely.

“Maybe,” his father concedes. “Or maybe it was checking back in with Hale. You never know with things like that. You were lucky you weren’t killed.”

Stiles doesn’t think that Derek has anything to do with this Kanima – apart from being its victim, obviously - but there’s absolutely no way on this good, green Earth that he’s going to broach that particular subject with his father.

“The body we found last week,” his dad is saying, “corresponds to the pattern of the three-fold deaths. But it might also be a Kanima, we think.”

“You think?”

“Stiles? The most recent account of Kanima genetics we have are from 1824,” the Sheriff gripes, narrowing his eyes. “They didn’t even know what _germs_ were.”

Stiles hoots loudly. “Such _sass_ , dad,” he says. “Didn’t know you had in ’ya, sass them all out, old man. Noted.”

“Moving _swiftly_ on,” John announces, though he can’t hide the amused uptick of his mouth. “The most recent victim of the threefold murders was most likely a Kanima. But he is dead and still safely in our domain, which obviously breaks the pattern.”

“If he was killed _last_ week,” Stiles says, “then it can’t be the same one that attacked me.”

“Exactly,” his dad tells him. “Given how incredibly rare Kanimas are, what are the chances that two show up simultaneously in the same exact town where bodies, both human and supernatural, have been taken for some kind of experimentation?”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that maybe, just maybe, the experiments yielded something after all.”

“And that would be, making more Kanimas?” Stiles guesses. “Or experimenting on something which _then_ has the capability to create multiple Kanimas.”

“It’d have to be an operation then,” his dad surmises.

“With someone to kill,” Stiles says, “and someone to make the bodies disappear.”

“Hired hands to kill,” the Sheriff agrees, “and someone on the inside who can make these bodies disappear, perhaps even to experiment on them.”

“Okay, that makes sense,” Stiles hazards. “But with that comes a handful of questions.”

After a beat, his father prompts, “Like?”

Stiles ticks off his fingers, “Why are they letting the bodies be processed by the cops in the first place, why are they creating more Kanimas, what else can they create if they’re already creating Kanimas, and who is big and powerful enough to run an operation like this over so many counties and over so many years without getting caught.”

“Good, Stiles,” the Sheriff smiles. “Very good.”

Stiles’ chest puffs up with pride, glad, for once, to put a smile on his father’s face rather than anger, or worse yet, frustration. He regards his father as he asks, “Have you found any connection between the morgue workers? Maybe they had something to do with it.”

“They were all human,” John sighs. “All unaware of the Supernatural, as far as surveillance could tell, and they were all at different hospitals. If there is a connection between them, we haven’t found one yet.”

-

The problem with lying to his father is that Stiles actually has to keep up the pretence of it. Which is why it’s barely dawn and Stiles’ footsteps, as they pound the preserve floor, is the only thing that he’s aware of.

He’s been at it for a while, and he’s sweating through his thin shirt, regretting the fact that he decided to wear a hoodie after all. Music is blasting through his ears, his iPod is tucked into his shorts and his water bottle is nearly finished.

He runs a little more, until his body is threatening to collapse with exhaustion. He sits on a fallen log amongst a copse of trees and chugs his water down, before plucking his earphones out and breathing deep and even.

It’s too early for noise, Stiles thinks. The sun is rising sharp and high, and the colours of the trees are too vivid, almost hyper-realistic; Stiles longs for his bed – for a shower, for a solid twelve hours of doing absolutely nothing at all.

The walk back to where he parked his car is slow, more like a hike than anything else, and it allows for Stiles to regain his breath, for the sweat to cool on his body – which makes him feel a hell of a lot better, he’s got to be honest.

It’s not until he’s some five hundred meters from his jeep that he realises that someone else is in the preserve with him.

Stiles is so surprised that he falters to a stop. They haven’t seen each other since the night at the loft – over a week now – and here is not where Stiles thought they’d be having their reunion.

Standing more or less opposite Stiles, is Derek in a pair of grey sweatpants, wearing a loose tank top and hair like he just rolled out of bed.

Stiles smiles weakly, soft and fragile on his face. He lifts his bottle in a modified wave, says, “Morning.”

“Morning,” Derek replies, sleep gruff and automatic. He frowns at himself, looking like he’s questioning the ever-loving fuck out of why the hell he just did that. Stiles _absolutely_ does not find it endearing.

He grins, emboldened to move forward until he within touching distance of the other man, “You out for a run?”

“No,” Derek tells him. “I just enjoy waking up before the sun does to walk around aimlessly before going back to sleep.”

Stiles scratches at his ear, clears his throat, “I-, I actually don’t know if you’re serious or not.”

The look Stiles receives in return could surely kill a man, he thinks. Deadpan sass is definitely a good look on Derek.

The man in question, however, turns as if he’s about to leave. Stiles’ hand darts out to curl around Derek’s wrist. Derek turns, staring significantly between Stiles’ hand and his face and back again.

“Do you mind?”

“I have my car,” Stiles blurts out, and he doesn’t miss the way that Derek’s eyes lift in surprise before he carefully schools his expression. “We could … if you want to?”

“You want to fuck?” Derek asks, blunt and to the point as always.

Stiles wills his blush to go down unnoticed, “Do _you?”_

Derek watches him intently, pale green eyes boring into Stiles’. He wants to look away, but knows somehow that by doing so, he’ll be breaking whatever moment is between them. So Stiles remains steadfast, matching Derek gaze for gaze.

The tension in Derek’s shoulders bleeds away slowly, and it’s only now that Stiles sees him relaxed, with a soft mouth and shoulders held looser, that he can recognise how tense and defensive Derek was before.

Stiles tilts his head in question, “Derek? It’s just sex,” he says, trying for nonchalant. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Derek seems to think about it, turning it over in his mind for a long, drawn-out moment; and if he’s tuned into how fast Stiles’ heart is beating, he makes no show of it. Quietly, he says, “Lead the way.”

Stiles does so, moving his hand to gather loosely around Derek’s elbow joint, smiling abashedly when Derek glances at him. He quickens his steps, eager at the prospect of having Derek beneath his hands once more.

They fall into the back of Stiles’ jeep a little more than clumsily, legs tangled together, and Derek’s hand cupping Stiles’ head to make sure he doesn’t bash it against anything.

Stiles twists, reaching behind him to push down the back seat with impatient hands. He lets out a breathless laugh once he succeeds, and without thinking twice about it, he hooks a hand around Derek’s neck and pulls him down for a long, closed mouth kiss. He doesn't entirely mean to do it, he's just as surprised as Derek is, but seeing as they’re about to sleep together for the second time in as many weeks, Stiles figures that he can take a few liberties. He pulls back a little, nips at Derek’s bottom lip.

Stiles, however, is entirely not expecting Derek surging forward, to open his mouth, deepen their kiss, slow it down.

Derek’s mouth is hot, and his tongue thick, brushing up against Stiles’, almost languidly if it were not for the way he controls the kiss right from the start – strong and unyielding, gentle fingertips tilting Stiles’ jaw.

Derek settles his weight on top of Stiles, the latter’s hands grasping at the body above his, pulling him closer, and rolling his hips up.

After that, the order of things gets more and more chaotic – Stiles registers nothing but feelings and sensations. Clothes are shed quickly, and both Derek and Stiles are bared to the warmth of the early morning sunlight. Stiles is so caught up in it all, eyes closed in the feel of Derek's skin against his, that he doesn't notice the way that Derek's gaze traces over his scars - apprehension clouding his gaze for a split second, before he neatly schools it back to indifference.  

The jeep shakes as Derek half clambers over the seats to find the lube that Stiles has stashed in the glove compartment box, and Stiles takes the opportunity to run his fingers over the contours of Derek’s belly, the curve of his hips.

It’s surreal, the quietness of the forest around them, the wide fields of where Stiles parked the jeep, away from everyone and everything. It’s just the two of them – it’s the way that the sunlight washes over Derek’s skin, the way that Stiles chases after Derek’s mouth, Derek’s fingers inside him.

“Get the condoms,” Stiles says, whispering – because it feels sacrilegious to break the hush of the woods around them, to raise their voices higher than the creatures chirping, stacked on tall, vibrant green trees.

Derek frowns, “I’m a werewolf.”

Stiles just barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, “If a set of claws means your jizz isn’t going to go all over my ass and my _pristine_ jeep, Derek, then by all means forego the damn condom. You’ll be cleaning it up afterwards.”

Derek gets the condom.

The sun is hot on Stiles’ back, but Derek’s hand is clammy and tight on Stiles’ hips, pulling him back on to his cock as he breaches him for the first time. Stiles’ moan gets caught in his throat, and he reaches back with shaky fingers, fisting tight in Derek’s hair as Derek eases into a rhythm.

It’s fast and frantic, but the hard floor of the jeep hurts Stiles’ knees, so he pushes Derek back, tells him to sit against the side and straddles him, thighs splayed on either side of him.

His dick is trapped between his and Derek’s bodies, pushed up tight against Derek’s abs, sliding over them as Derek grasps two firm handfuls of Stiles’ ass, fucking him down on to his cock.

Derek is thick inside him, and Stiles is almost delirious with it, he buries his face in the crook of Derek’s neck, undulates his hips jerkily, only eased into a rhythm because of Derek’s own hands.

Stiles’ moans are long and deep, groans emanating from the centre of his chest, and he hopes that he doesn’t ever forget the feeling of this – of Derek’s hands splayed wide on his hips, Derek’s jagged puffs of breath curling over the shell of Stiles’ ear, and his name – his _name_ – falling from Derek’s lips like it’s the only thing he remembers.

Stiles comes _hard_ , his muscles contracts and he squeezes tight around Derek, burying his moan against Derek’s collarbone. He breathes deep after, forehead still pressed to Derek’s shoulder.

Mindlessly, he tilts his head, pressing soft, chaste kisses over the line of Derek’s throat. He eases slowly off of Derek’s cock, jacks him off long and slow, kisses growing harder against the curve of Derek’s jaw until Stiles finds his mouth.

He kisses Derek right through his orgasm, Derek’s chest stuttering beneath him, a long, sated sigh escaping him.

Stiles kisses Derek more still, seemingly insatiable after his initial taste. His kisses are shallow, and the sounds of their mouths parting again and again is loud between them, tacky but sweet. Stiles bites down on Derek’s lip, loses himself in it.

He gets tired eventually, and he lists sideways until he’s sliding off Derek’s thighs. He sprawls in the trunk of jeep, his legs half way up the side because there isn’t enough space. Stiles drags an arm over his eyes, shielding himself from the sun.

The jeep shakes, and Stiles presumes that Derek is pulling on his clothes. He doesn’t move though, more content is he to breath deep, he could doze off if he wanted, and the weather – warm and pleasant – is good for it.

With a final juddering tilt, the jeep stills. When Stiles peeks out from under his arm, he sees Derek leaving – sweats loose around his hips, shirt balled up in his fist. He didn’t even close the damn jeep door, Stiles gripes, muttering, ‘Asshole,” under his breath.

He lets his head thunk back against the jeep floor, wondering what the fucking hell he’s doing.

-

The jeep smells of Derek and Stiles, and _sex;_ so Stiles winds down his windows and drives fast through town. Once he's home he heads straight for the bathroom on the second floor, but finds his little brother there instead.

Isaac has clearly just rolled out of bed; he has a face-towel hooked around his neck and his toothbrush lazily hanging out of his mouth as he attempts to comb his unruly hair.

Stiles doesn’t have time for this shit, to be honest, there’s a shower that needs to be had.

He knokss twice on the door to get Isaac’s attention.

“Hey,” he greets when Isaac nods at him. “I think the games you ordered just came in the mail.”

“Really?” Isaac sputters around his toothbrush, he’s been waiting for that package for days. He quickly rinses his toothbrush beneath the tap before hurrying out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the towel. He claps Stiles’ shoulder on the way out, “Thanks, man.”

Stiles nods at him, feeling not at all guilty when he slips into the bathroom and locks the door behind him; thirty seconds later, Isaac recants his statement, yelling exasperated profanities and accusations through the door – (‘ _I’ll fight you, you lying little bitch,_ ’ Isaac screeches).

Stiles hums to himself, aggressively ignoring his baby brother; Isaac will get bored eventually, he’s sure of it.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poet I reference as the title/subtitle of this chapter is actually someone I had the pleasure to see live (and review!) a few weeks ago, check me out. We have a poetry fest at my Uni, and he came along. Although I'm really pissed because I saw him when he was at someone else's reading but we didn't get a chance to talk :( Anyway, check out some of his live performances, they're fantastic!
> 
> EXO's music video still has dropped :( but their new album (Exodus Vol. 2)is the bomb dot com. So you should check that out too. 
> 
> I think that's all, I'll see you guys soon (fo'reals this time)


	9. Nightdancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual transcript from a text conversation I recently had with my sister: 
> 
> Me: I'm writing HTTB
> 
> Her: after what???? 10 years 
> 
> Her: im proud of u

Since that new start, time has never been quite the same. It runs backwards, trips me up with memories.

**Elizabeth Garner**

-

In retrospect, Stiles sighs, a bare harrumph of a movement.  _In retrospect_ \- he's been thinking that a lot lately. In retrospect he wouldn't have chased after Derek in the first place, in retrospect Stiles would never have told his father about his (heavily edited, read: entirely fabricated) activities; he would never have had (admittedly great) sex with a werewolf.

And, in retrospect, Stiles wouldn’t continue coming back to him.

He familiarises himself with Derek’s body in no time at all, and considers himself an expert around three weeks after their encounter in the woods. He’s been with Derek three times in as many weeks – learning the contours of the other man’s body, lips tracing across soft skin and chasing after gentle sighs.

It’s a routine, and it’s dangerous. But it doesn’t stop the harsh flicker of lust coiling beneath Stiles’ skin, or the treacherous slither of _something more_ lashing across his chest.

Now, in the back of Stiles’ jeep, legs wrapped tight around Derek’s waist, he undulates with him; unable to stop himself from tossing his head back, sticky locks of hair plastered to his temples as his fingertips dig into the tightly corded muscles of Derek’s shoulder.

Derek comes first, even though he tries not to, groaning deep and thick into the jut of Stiles’ clavicle. Stiles’ release, on the other hand, is sharp and fast – the harsh snap of a string pulled too tight, fingernails sinking into soft skin on the nape of Derek’s neck. He slumps forward after, resting his weight on Derek.

Derek takes it easily, manoeuvring Stiles so as to pull out before they both slump back into the blankets laid out on the back seats of jeep.

Stiles’ eyes flicker closed, the sound of Derek’s heartbeat is strong and steady beneath him, his body pulsating heat that make Stiles want to curl up closer, away from the frigid early morning air.

Of course, Derek being the absolute downer that he is, starts moving restlessly – ungracefully shoving Stiles away so that he can start pulling on his clothes. Stiles’ hand is darting forward, whippet fast, before he knows it; he clamps his fingers around Derek’s wrist.

“What’s biting your ass so much that you need to bolt not thirty seconds after we finish?” Stiles hassles, though it’s undermined by the rough sluggishness of his voice, tugging on Derek’s arm. “Can you not let me enjoy the afterglow for a single second?”

Derek raises his brow, quiet voice unruffled, “You can enjoy yourself however you want,” he says. “You don’t need me here for that.”

He shakes’ Stiles’ hand away and pulls his shirt over his head. It’s purple today; soft cotton that brushed against the hollows of Stiles’ palms. He doesn’t know why this is so important to him, for Derek to stay, but that’s an introspection Stiles will avoid for as long as he can.

“Derek,” he says now, beseeching. He slumps forward, juts his bottom lip a little because Stiles is not above a little emotional manipulation to get what he wants. “Just stay, ok? Just stay.”

Derek wavers a little, eyebrows creasing as he takes him in. Stiles surges forward, pressing his body – his nakedness – against Derek; he flicks his gaze up to catch Derek’s, bites lightly on the corner of his lip and – _got him_.

Derek softens, rolling his eyes at the victory in Stiles’ expression. Using the wide flat of his hand he pushes Stiles’ face away. “Put on some clothes first. It physically pains me to look at you.”

-

There’s an old ice cream factory, a small business long abandoned. It sits beneath the bridge in downtown Beacon Hills, hidden from sight. The space is open, but small, tens of bodies pressed into each other raising the temperature up and up and up.

All that Stiles can see is light – light and flickers of faces lost in music, tendrils of hair catching in the multi-coloured illumination, vibrant neon glow-in-the-dark lines and shapes blazing into the heat of the darkness in its absence.

The bass is loud, a deafening thump of electro-bass, the scratching wail of a guitar riff inlaid into the mesh of dubstep. Everything is sticky – his sneakers stick to the floor, his shirt to his chest –and even the air seems burdened with the tackiness of sweat and alcohol.

Moving between un-parting crowds is difficult, but Stiles perseveres. He finds himself searching for someone he has an inkling isn’t there, and will not be showing up at all, and yet, he still searches for Derek – for his broad shoulders or his immovable frown.

Stiles’ head is buzzing, thick like cotton even though nothing but the water he brought with him has passed his lips tonight. It’s the anticipation, he thinks – of seeing Derek, wanting to press up against him, move with him to the deep resonant bass around them. To be utterly exposed and yet anonymous – that’s what Stiles wants, to chase after that frisson of danger, of _chemistry_ , that exists between them.

The disappointment that comes then, when it’s been three hours and Derek is non-existent, is sharp and hot. Stiles bursts out of a side door, loud mesh of noise spilling out into the night air before the heavy door shuts and seals it – dampening it to nothing but a mute vibration.

Stiles’ fingers are shaking, and he’s dying for a cigarette even though he hasn’t touched one since Zuri’s last visit. His sweat soaked shirt is cooling now, as he starts to walk and, god, he feels stupid.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him – why his mind is always so consumed with _Derek, Derek, Derek_. Stiles wants him, yes – his body and his touch – but that should be all, because there’s nothing more to it. He’s a _werewolf_ and Stiles can’t do to forget that, no matter how much like Stiles Derek may seem.

Stiles bites down on the inside of his lip, running a frustrated hand through his damp hair, come tomorrow he’ll focus his attentions elsewhere – refract that attraction he feels settling deep in his gut.

Maybe he’ll even ask Stevie Calabar out – the pretty girl who’d slid in next to him during homeroom. They don’t know each other all that well, but Stiles thinks they could come to have a somewhat mutual understanding.

Her eyes were lined in dark brown kohl today, and her pretty pink lipstick was fading at the edges of her thin lips.

She had handed him a scrap of paper, torn from her notebook – her writing barely legible but he could decipher a time and a location.

“A friend of a friend is playing tonight,” she had said, finger curling around the edges of her sleeves. “We want to fill up the body count.”

“You think I’d be up for a – what is this? A rave?” Stiles had asked in turn, mouth catching on a smile.

She had laughed, “You always seem up for a good party, Stilinski.” She stood then, looking completely innocuous in her lilac sweater and pleated skirt. “Invite carefully, the venue is not the biggest we could find.”

Later, when Stiles had hidden away beneath the school’s main stairwell (when really, his hall pass expired some three minutes prior) he’d considering who to invite: his siblings were immediately ruled out, because Stiles actually does have _some_ morals, Scott and Joshua were equally out of the question with their certified Innocent™ status. His fingers, almost automatically hovered over Derek’s number, breath catching in his throat.

So now Stiles is here, walking home miserable and alone, feeling stupid and sweat-ridden, a headache just about beginning to pound at the inside of his skull.

He has his hands in his pockets and he sticks to the sides of the alley, tucked away from the muted yellow glow of the streetlamps above.

A little in front of him, on the opposite side of the long alleyway, to the right, is a sound: footsteps, heavy and slow.

There’s one, two, three - a pause; and a persistent roll and tick of metal.

Stiles slows down, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t have any weapons on him, because he’s on his way back from a rave and he’s not an _idiot_ , so his eyes automatically scan around for what little he can use to his advantage.

There’s nothing more than pieces of trash dotted around, nothing substantial.

Up ahead there’s a man, standing on the bottom step of the old, rusted emergency stair-escape that crawls up the backbone of a red-bricked building.  His narrow shoulders are hunched against the slight breeze in the air, the twisted cotton tassels hanging on the bottom of his scarf sway lightly.

He startles when he hears Stiles’ advancing footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with wide eyes behind neat round glasses and a cigarette hanging limply from the corner of his mouth. He relaxes a little, shoulders lessening their tension beneath the dark denim of his jacket.

“Hey, man,” he greets easily, turning his body towards Stiles when he’s offered a curt nod in reply. “You got a light?” he brandishes his own lighter, bright purple and empty. “I’m all out.”

Stiles shakes his head, “I don’t smoke.”

“Ah,” the other man says, with a rueful smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

He steps off the stairwell and heads in the opposite direction to Stiles, hunched over his lighter once again, trying to preserve the small flicker of fire that comes with every ineffective roll and tick of the spark wheel. 

Habit has Stiles glancing over his shoulder at the man even after they walked past each other.

Paranoia, on the other hand, has Stiles glancing over his shoulder again when he cannot hear anything other than his own breathing.

There’s nothing there, behind him.

The alleyway is as empty as it was when he entered it. It’s not overly long so as it’s impossible for a person to exit it quickly, but for a person to disappear in the mere seconds between Stiles’ first and second glance back? That shouldn’t be possible.

 

Stiles stops, sharp eyes trying to catalogue every part of the shadowed area of the alleyway; the hair on his forearms stand on end, and he’s got a very bad, _bad_ feeling about this.

His muscles are tense, his jaw is tightening and he just wants to be out of this place as soon as he possibly can.

Stiles turns, colliding straight into the body of another person. He registers light blue tassels on the end of a scarf, and the dark wash of a denim jacket before he jerks his eyes up.

There’s a sharp grin on the other’s face, the corners of his lips faltering, “Got a light?”

-

The other man pushes both his hands into Stiles’ chest, sending him flying over concrete. Stiles only just remembers to tuck his head in to his chest, and press his elbows in towards his stomach before he hits the ground, rolling upwards in a clumsy tumble. He pushes himself up by the palms of his hands, wincing at the pain in his right hip, after his messy landing, and the scratches on his forearm – where his grey hoody had been pushed up.

The man in front of him is standing frozen, eyes boring into Stiles as he tries to stumble backwards.

The man is standing still, but he’s almost … not.

There’s a movement to him that Stiles can’t place, like there are electric currents running beneath his skin. The man’s glasses are askew on his face, leaning just too much to the left, his lips are slack and his eyes are empty, vacant.

There’s a weird pallor to his skin, and it’s not because he is pale, because he’s not, at all – but the rich olive tone of his skin seems translucent; as if Stiles could put his hand right through his head and find nothing there but cold air.

His skin seems to be falling apart, falling away from where it’s situated but that’s _impossible_ because Stiles is looking at him and _nothing_ is happening. The man’s face remains intact, his skin is still there and Stiles _knows_ that, and yet … and yet.

Stiles blinks fast, trying to regain control of his senses. He didn’t take anything at the rave, didn’t kiss anyone, didn’t even let anyone or _anything_ near his mouth – so he knows that this kind of illusion or glamour or whatever the hell it is, is coming from the creature in front of him.

He settles into a defensive stance almost automatically, watching carefully for any signs of attack but trying to come up with an escape route. He doesn’t want to fight, not when he doesn’t know what he’s up against, but the alley behind leaves him far too open to attack, and there’s nothing but the backs of tall warehouses lining up either side of him.

Stiles curses himself because of course, _of course_ his demise would be as he was walking home from a rave feeling miserable and pining over a werewolf like one of those goddamned cautionary tales he’d grown up listening to. He’s too good to die like this, to die a cliché.

Stiles is taking the smallest steps backwards he can manage, but the creature is following his every move – twitching like it’s amused at Stiles’ attempts to escape.

But considering how fast the creature moved and how slow Stiles is moving, if Stiles were in its position, he would laugh too.

 

Stiles darts his gaze above the creature’s shoulder, trying to parse out any kind of escape, when he catches movement in his periphery.

Stiles' gaze ricochets back to the creature, but it's not there anymore. It's moved - about five inches forward, but that's close enough for Stiles, who immediately stumbles over his feet trying to get back. 

Then, he actually takes a good look at the thing and his breath traps itself in his throat, cold and painful, because that thing in front of him, it's just turned into- It's impossible Stiles knows, but his eyes seeing it.

"Mom?" He says; his voice is small and strangled, disbelieving and hoping all at the same tumultuous time. 

She looks exactly how he remembers her: her brown hair pulled back into an immaculate ponytail, in dark jeans and brown leather riding boots. There are parts of her that are blurred, insubstantial, things like the shapes of her ears, or the curl of her fingers into her palm - little things that Stiles has forgotten with years and grief. 

There's that same translucent quality to her skin - and she's an apparition, Stiles knows, rationally that this is not his mom, and yet ... He doesn't move, not an inch, when she stalks up to him. Her gait is irregular, like the creature bearing her skin has to adjust and learn to walk for her height - there's a wicked gleam in her eyes - none of that fondness she used to reserve for him when he was being good, none of that familiarly, that _comfort_ that Stiles associates with her honey-toned gaze. 

Her fingers - the _creature's_ fingers, Stiles harshly reminds himself, even if tears sting at his eyes - are cold where they wrap around the delicate skin of his neck. 

The coldness is what snaps him out of his stupor - looking like his mom or no; he's not going to go down without a fight. 

His right arm dashes forward to crash into the creature's forearm, catching it before it has a chance to clamp its fingers down. He punches it in the stomach, driving his body weight forward so that the momentum can put distance between them. Stiles leans on that and turns his body quickly, stabilizing himself before switching legs to deliver a swift rounding kick to the middle of the creature's chest.

It stumbles backwards, clearly unprepared for the eventuality of Stiles actually fighting back. 

Stiles guesses that that's what the glamour is for: to daze the creature's victims so it can take them easily. 

But Stiles isn't anyone's victim, and if what it takes to survive is to punch his mom in the face, he thinks deliriously, then by god he'll punch his mom in the face. 

Or maybe not, considering the creature is back up on its feet and darting forward towards Stiles - too fast for his eyes to properly see.

It's in front of him, and then, in the same second, it's behind him. 

Fingers dig into the meat of Stiles' upper arms, nails so sharp he can feel the press of them through his clothes. It clamps Stiles' arms to his side, essentially immobilizing him, and pushes in close. 

"Oisin," it says, and it’s in the same way his mother always said it, whisper soft as Stiles was going to sleep, brushing his hair back from his face. "Sweetheart, calm down. It's me. It's just me." 

Stiles grits his teeth. "You're not my mom," he snarls, voice far too loud for the quiet hours of Beacon Hills. "Go to hell, you piece of shit." 

He drops his knees, catching the monster off guard, and Stiles uses that hesitation, that one second of hesitation to jerk his shoulder up and into the thing's chest, before grabbing hold of the leather jacket it's wearing to throw it over his shoulder. He turns his body, aiming it towards the large metal dumpster hidden away in the shadows. 

The thing hits the dumpster with a loud, reverberating noise but it's up in seconds - seemingly getting stronger the longer it's out of its human casing. 

Its teeth are sharper now, crowded in its mouth and its eyes are steady glowing purple-silver, with a wide square pupil mutating in the light.

It turns out that trying to defend against this thing is harder when Stiles has to look at it in the face, in to the face of his _mom_. 

But he rubs the tips of his fingers against his thumb and remembers how the creature's leather jacket felt like denim. 

He charges for it the split second after it starts for him - materializing closer and closer like a phantom. 

The thing is fast - not too fast for Stiles' ability to block it, but enough that Stiles knows it's just seeking to tire him out.

It seems to know what Stiles is going to do, arms following quickly and enough that eventually its moves are just an echo of Stiles'. The thing doesn't even seem to want to attack Stiles anymore, much less cause him actual physical damage. It's like this is a game to it, and it sends fear trickling down Stiles' spine.

Their legs are caught - Stiles is trying to release himself, so as to deliver a kick, but the thing just grapples with him. 

Up this close, Stiles can see the faint freckles dotting the tops of his mother's cheeks, the lines guarding the outer corners of her eyes - he can even smell her _perfume_ and it's too much. Stiles can't ... He can feel himself wilting beneath the fingertips gouging into the bones of his shoulders. 

"Please," he says, garbled through his gritted teeth. His heart is beating through his chest, and rationality wars with grief. " _Mom_." 

His mother's face contorts into a smile, but it's nothing that Stiles recognizes. A sharp exhale of breath reveals that this creature's breath smells of unsmoked cigarettes, rather than eucalyptus chewing gum and this thing is _nothing_ like Stiles' mom. This thing is much stronger than his mother ever was, at least with him, even when she tugged him to a corner with a painful grasp on his ear - even when livid, even when his mother was exasperated, angry, _disappointed_ , she never looked at him like this - like his defeat was everything she had ever needed. 

The thing shifts it's hand, grabbing a palmful of his hair and pulling harshly, tearing a strangled cry from his throat, it turns and throws him - and Stiles crashes into the metal dumpster. 

He lands on the floor on the palms of his hands, on top of a soggy pizza box that hasn't been cleared away - but it saves him from being too scratched up. The force of impact makes Stiles to bite into the inside of his lip, he groans, licking over the wound. It tastes like coins stuck between his teeth.

Stiles tries to lift himself up, arms shaking - and the thing just looks at him like it's appraising it's next meal, which, Stiles supposes, it is.

It's neck ticks, quick and eerie, and it appears closer, too quick for its human legs. 

There's a shadow of a movement to Stiles' left, and hard thud of metal settling on metal. 

Just as quick, another body settles between Stiles and the creature: jumping swift and silent on the concrete into a controlled crouch. 

Stiles' heartbeat is beating out of his chest, entirely too thick and loud in his ears. He scrambles backwards - knowing from experience that just because one creature has saved him from another, it doesn't mean that he's safe with the former either. 

For now, he guesses, he can just admire the look of stupefied surprise rippling across the glamour-clad creature as it takes in its new opponent.

The one directly in front of Stiles stands up slowly, body angled in a way that shields Stiles from the other. 

But Stiles would recognize those broad shoulders anywhere. He takes in a sharp intake of breath; cool air sliding through his teeth because Derek - _Derek_ \- is flicking out his hands beside him; sharp, translucent claws sliding out neatly. 

His body is powerful like this, the pointed tips of ears standing out starkly against his short hair, his shoulders hunched over as he leans forward to release a deep, guttural howl. 

Stiles can feel it's vibrations rippling over his skin - and it's tremendous and terrifying all at once. 

The creature opposite him returns with a hiss, loud and grating, but in a way - nothing at all like Stiles has ever heard before. 

It rushes at Derek, and it's surreal - absolutely insane - for Stiles to watch his _mom_ attack Derek, out for his blood. 

Derek deflects easily, his body much heavier than that of his opponent and so he's able to catch it around the waist and throw it against the brick of a building. The thing crumples to the floor, taking with it dried fragments of cement dust that settle over a dark denim jacket and crooked, broken-lensed glasses. 

Derek looks back at Stiles and Stiles startles, because his face is all sharp fangs and deep set ridges and no matter how many times Stiles has seen it, he can't get used to it. 

Derek hesitates when he sees Stiles' reaction, and the softness in his face-hardens, mouth tensing. His defenses shoot all the way back up and Stiles feels horrible, because Derek's just saved his life and he's sill acting like his nature disgusts him. 

Stiles reaches for Derek's hand, fingers curling carefully around Derek's claws, but they retract immediately and Stiles feels the familiar smooth ridges of Derek's closely trimmed nails. 

He keeps his eye on Derek, holding his gaze steadily as he stands up on shaky knees. 

Derek's hand tightens, almost subconsciously around Stiles'. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, gruff and awkward - like he's not used to engaging in polite conversation after saving a human from the deathly claws of, well, _death_. Fancy that. 

"Yes, um," Stiles says, and he's not proud of the shaky timbre to his voice. "I - yeah. Are you?" 

If looks could kill, Stiles thinks, as Derek's face settles into sardonicism, he would be draped over the phantasm's arms by now like some kinda sweaty damsel-in-distress. 

He purses his lips in Derek's direction, his free hand coming up to flick at the bushy black hair that's sprouted in Derek's normally immaculately groomed sideburns, "Shut it, muttonchops." 

Derek's nostril flare, and he narrows his eyes at Stiles - but before he can end Stiles' life, so soon after having saved it, there's movement in front of them. 

The creature - now back to looking like the guy that had asked Stiles for a light - stands up. 

His hand comes up to fix his glasses on his face even though his lenses are falling apart. 

Derek automatically shifts so that he's placed in front of Stiles, using their clasped hands to tug Stiles behind him. 

The creature looks around, looking almost spooked, but when its eyes are on Derek, there's that same emptiness it had when it looked at Stiles - like there's nothing more than a desire for blood running through its veins.

Then there's that same transparent quality to its skin - like a sheet of white rice paper dunked in ice-cold water. 

Derek's exhale of breath is quiet, but his thick, bushy brows furrow, "What the hell?" 

The thing in front of them seems to be splitting in half - seamless; neck twitching like it's trying crack its bones. 

Derek makes to move forward, and Stiles gets his mode of thinking - attack the creature in the middle of its apparent transformation, when it's at its weakest. But Stiles is born and bred a hunter, and he has an instinctive curiosity beyond that. So he tightens his hand in Derek's, uses his other to wrap around the delicate bones of Derek's wrists. 

He presses in close and doesn't allow Derek to do more than jerk forward. Stiles can feel the other man's incredulous gaze on the side of his face, but he doesn't take his eyes from the creature in front of him. Wanting to know what the hell it's going to do - what it is capable of. 

The transformation can't take more than five seconds, but it feels so much longer than that. When it splits, it's completely identical, then, when Stiles blinks - just the once, but that's all that's necessary - it's like he's looking in a mirror. 

In front of him is ... himself - dressed identically, and next to him, is Derek. 

"Oh," Stiles groans, exasperated. "You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me." 

On the other side of the alleyway Stiles - the fake one - opens its mouth, copying syllable by syllable the phrase Stiles has just uttered. 

And as if that's not the creepiest thing Stiles has ever heard, the thing positively leers at Derek - the real one.

Stiles is incensed. 

He shakes Derek's hand free from his own and puts some distance between them, readying himself. 

"You take yourself," Stiles tells Derek shortly, and then he gestures at where his doppelgänger has his eyes fixed on Derek. "I'll take care of this clown." 

Derek crouches low and releases a growl, which Stiles takes for assent and they charge. 

The other creatures mirror it, but they’re not looking at their expected targets.

The other Stiles still has that ingratiating, lecherous gaze turned towards Derek, and the other Derek is staring similarly at Stiles; when they attack, the fake Derek arcs above the other Stiles, which dashes at Derek, whilst the former guns straight for Stiles.

Stiles is not at all prepared for the creature, in the shape of Derek, having prematurely settled his weight to carry the brunt of someone of his _own_ weight. He hits the wall with a harsh thud, his upper back taking most of the impact.

The new 'other' Derek is powerful, perhaps even more so than the real one and so he pushes Stiles back into the brick wall with all the exertion of a lazy paddle in swimming pool. 

Its face is twisted in the grotesque mask of lycanthropy, eyes burning a bright scarlet, but it's pupils are still shaped in that uncanny square, though it's much smaller now, harder to differentiate unless he's this close to it.

It says Stiles' name in the same way Derek says it: slightly exasperated, mostly tolerant, and a little – just a tiny bit - fond. 

"Stiles," the creature says, wilting a little where Stiles is actively trying to claw his way free. "Stay still. It’s me." 

It's odd, because the creature has used this exact same tactic not ten minutes before when it was wearing Stiles' mom's face, so what on earth makes it think that Stiles will fall for it now, when he hadn't even done that the first time around? 

It's either dumb or primitive. Though, it reminds Stiles of when he was younger and he'd tell Erica a joke, one she'd repeat back to him roughly ten seconds after she finished laughing, expecting him not to know or anticipate the punch line, even though he'd just told her it. So, Stiles is willing to bet this creature is the latter - with minimal retaining of memory and a basic skill level of tactic. 

He glances over its shoulder and sees Derek - the real one; the differentiation in Stiles' head is getting particularly annoying - crowding the creature against the opposite wall. 

The creature morphs Stiles' face to make it look like it's afraid, body folding in on itself as it glances up beneath its lashes up at Derek. 

So that one, Stiles thinks, must be the original shifter, it’s much cleverer, the one holding Stiles must be the fragment. 

Derek hesitates; hand curled up in a fist and above the creature face, poised to strike. 

Derek hesitates, eyes seeing nothing but _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles_ , and that's all it takes for the creature to strike him, once in the stomach another in the face - quick, sharp jabs that result in Derek stumbling back with a groan. 

Stiles turns back to the creature in front of him, unexpectedly loosening his knees so that the creature tightens it's hands on Stiles shoulders, so preoccupied with keeping Stiles in its grasp that it doesn't even see the next attack coming. Stiles knees him, right in the groin, as hard as he possibly can, before he shakes it off him. 

He sprints the few meters across to the other side of the alleyway, springing off Derek, with a hand placed on his back, to add height to his jump. He lands a thundering punch to the side of the creatures face, hard enough that Stiles' knuckles split and creature's head smashes back against the wall. 

Stiles grabs hold of Derek's arm and pulls him back as soon as his feet touch the ground. 

His hand is smarting; his body aching but the two monsters are quick to reassemble, placing themselves in front of Stiles and Derek.

Derek positions himself in front if Stiles, as if he's actually dumb enough to take them both on at the same time. Stiles nudges Derek's arm. 

Derek doesn't turn, but he grunts once, indicating that he's listening. 

"Support me, okay?" he asks, because he has a theory: these are monsters of mimicry, and they do seem to get stronger the longer they remain in their chosen form. But Stiles is willing to bet that five minutes is not long enough to imitate over ten years of training. 

Derek's pure strength is all good and well, but not when he has no specific technique and his opponent can dish it out just as much. 

Stiles' doppelgänger is still fixated on Derek, and Stiles hopes to all that is good and holy that he does not look like that when he looks at Derek. Stiles likes to think that he has more class than that. 

"Hold your arms out," Stiles says quickly, when the creature begins to move forward, in that strange way of appearing closer rather than actually physically moving. 

Stiles has somewhat figured out the distance it moves, so when he turns and uses Derek's arms as a springboard, he can trap the monsters' head between his thighs. 

He misjudged a little, and his doppelgänger's head ends up cradled between his knees - it gives him less leverage, but when he lets go of Derek's arms and drops into a handstand, he can quickly roll over so that he is lifting the monster up and over, crashing to the cement tailbone first. 

Derek has already charged for his doppelgänger, who had gunned for Stiles in that first instance. 

The creature beneath Stiles grips his arms tightly; crescent moon indents forming on Stiles' skin even through Stiles' clothes. 

It's an equal force pushing an equal force, and they're at a stalemate. So Stiles does the best thing he can thing off: he smashes his head against the nose of the creature. There's blood gushing out everywhere and Stiles is definitely going to regret that tomorrow. 

Stiles goes for Derek as soon as the monster loosens its hold on him. He grabs him by the arm and the waist, pulling him backwards because there, in the distance is the quiet sounding wail of a police siren, and it seems to be getting closer. 

Stiles shirt is speckled with blood, and his lip is throbbing. 

"We have to get out of here," he tells Derek, eyes on where Derek's doppelgänger is wheezing on the ground. 

Derek turns to him, mouth set in a harsh line, a trail of thin, and shallow claw marks grazing the tops of his cheeks before disappearing into his stubble. 

"What about-?" Derek looks at the two creatures, he's out of breath. "We can't just leave them here, Stiles, they _look_ like us."

"They'll change," Stiles says, tugging on Derek's arm, there's no time to explain how or why Stiles knows that, so he settles on trying to get Derek to move. "Derek, my _dad_ ... We can't be here."

Derek's eyes dart to the opening of the alley, where the sirens are getting exponentially louder, and then to creatures on the floor, before they catch Stiles' gaze.  They run into the darkness, the streetlights placed further apart in the winding depths of downtown Beacon Hills' maze of back alleys. Stiles doesn't know them at all well, so he lets Derek take the lead, they're mostly running straight forwards. 

They take a sharp left, and Stiles doesn't need to go in further than a few feet to realize that it's a dead end. 

"Damn it," he curses. He can still hear the sirens, which means they must not be too far from the alley. The creatures were down, but definitely not dead, and he doesn't want to encounter them once again. 

He turns back, to run in the opposite direction; like a bungee jump, the hand he has clasped in Derek's tugs him straight back to the man. 

Stiles tries again, getting impatient because now is _definitely_ not the time for Derek to be playing at being a living statue. 

Stiles glares at him, snapping harshly, "What the _hell_ is your problem?" 

He opens his mouth, perhaps to rampage on about how they really, _really_ , need to get the hell out of dodge when he sees it - the slightest tint of purple-silver in Derek's eyes, square shaped pupils large and obvious. 

Stiles mouth gapes open, caught on a breath and he is _so_ _incredibly_ _stupid_. 

Before he can even react, the creature is pushing forward, pushing Stiles against the wall roughly, cold hands coming up to grip Stiles' throat. 

Stiles thrashes as much as he possibly can, kicking out with his legs, hands trying to bat the creatures' own away from him. He loses his footing with a breathless cry, huddled on the floor and reduced to nothing but an instinct to survive - no trained technique to be found.

He pushes against the creature's chest, but Derek has always been stronger than Stiles, and this thing has no problems imitating that. 

Its hand closes around Stiles' neck, and Stiles freezes, terror spiking through him. But just before it clamps down, before it restricts Stiles' breathing, a clawed hand insinuates itself against the creatures' own throat. 

There's no hesitation at all, a sharp jerk of a wrist and the creature's throat is torn out. 

Stiles braces himself for blood, but there is none - there's a split second of surprise flittering across the creatures' face and then it crumbles into vapor - as if it was never there. 

Derek - the real one this time - stumbles forward now that there's nothing between him and Stiles. He catches himself on the wall just above. 

They stare at each other, both breathing hard and then, just like that it’s so incredibly awkward.

"Are you alright?" Derek asks Stiles, a beat too late.

"Yeah," Stiles' voice cracks, embarrassment flushing through him. He clears his throat, aiming for a deeper, "Yeah. Are, are you?" 

Derek grunts, trying to sound unaffected even through the painful awkwardness of the situation. 

"Good," Stiles says, raising himself up with as much dignity as he can muster, even after he slips once (maybe twice). "Great. That's awesome." 

Derek valiantly tries to smile though his grimace, big hands clenching into fists at his sides because he doesn't know what to do with them. 

"We really do have to get out of here," he says, avoiding eye contact. "The cops are on foot, but they'll be searching these parts soon enough."

Stiles nods, and yet, they haven't moved.

He scratches his ear, "And, uh, what about the other ... The other thing?" He winces slightly at his choice of language. 

"I took care of it," Derek tells him. 

Stiles presses his lips together, because whilst punching his own face had had surprisingly therapeutic qualities, he doesn't quite know what to make of his… - of someone that he's actively sleeping with punching the living daylights of his doppelgänger.    

But Derek's face changes, an unreadable look on his face. He says, somberly, "It didn't look like you."

And with the look on Derek's face, Stiles believes that wholeheartedly. 

He clears his throat, says quietly, "We really have to go," because even Stiles can hear the chatter of police officers now. They're still far enough that he can't make out the words, only sounds, but that's still too close for comfort. 

Derek leads him into the alley, the one that ends in a dead-end, though Derek isn't looking forward, but rather up.

Sticking out of the wall towards the roof, are a line of old metal rods. There's a whole row of them, and Stiles cannot even fathom what they could possibly have been used for. But there are large gaps in them, where a few rods have fallen. 

Derek searches around him, and eventually he picks up such a fallen rod, just peeking out beneath a dumpster. 

He tests its strength before he backs up a little, wielding it like a javelin. 

Derek takes a few seconds and then he's throwing it. The metal embeds itself in the brick with a sickening, sharp tang; grating to the ears. 

It's situated roughly about a meter beneath the others, but it stick out about an inch more, and so it's less sturdy. 

Derek looks at him.

"You need to jump," he says, lacing his fingers together for a boost. 

Stiles should honestly question why he trusts Derek, a _werewolf_ , so implicitly. But the cops are getting nearer, and they have no time. 

He puts his foot on Derek's hands, holding on to his shoulder. He streamlines his body when Derek catapults him upwards, but that's not enough, and Stiles misses the rod by several inches. 

Derek catches him by the waist, surprisingly gentle when he lowers him to the ground. 

"Again," he says. "C'mon." 

Stiles jogs away, and when he glances behind him he can see the faraway illumination of police-issued flashlights. 

He takes this jump with a running start, and Derek pushes him up harder. Stiles bypasses the lower rung altogether and desperately clasps his hands around on the rungs above, his feet catching haphazardly on the one below. 

His weight is too much for it apparently and it dislodges, crashing down to the ground with a loud, echoing noise as Stiles' legs dangle in the air. 

A little further away, the police chatter gets louder, more excited, clearly having heard the ruckus, and Stiles can hear them start to run in their direction. They are so incredibly fucked.

Below him there's the sound of Derek jumping off of the dumpster, Stiles doesn't even know how he does it, but all of a sudden, Derek's on the roof, leaning back over the side to grasp Stiles' wrists. 

 

He pulls him up quickly, Stiles’ legs scrambling over the side just as the cops turn the corner into the - now deserted - alley. 

Stiles falls messily over Derek, legs tangled together, head on his chest, and Derek's hand over his mouth as Stiles tries to control his loud breathing. His heart is thundering, but so is Derek's, and they stay there huddled close together on the roof of some unknown building until Derek is sure that the cops have gone. 

-

Derek walks Stiles home, and it's a quiet one. Stiles is still trying to process having seen the image of his mom tonight, and what that means for the fact that the creature had turned into himself and Derek. 

When then get to the corner of Stiles' home, Derek leaves without a word, blending into the darkness with nothing more than a nod and a gruff, "Goodnight."

Stiles can't help but feel a little disappointed, but then, he chastises himself because what the hell was he hoping for? A kiss goodnight? Is narrowly escaping murder by your doppelgänger considered the new date activity du jour? He’s being stupid.

This thing with Derek is physical, nothing but. He should be thankful that the werewolf even deemed it worthy to save his life, not be feeling resentful that there should have been ... Should have been more. 

Stiles doesn’t sleep easy that night. When his dad comes in some two hours later, just as the sun is about coming up, he checks Stiles' room. 

Stiles doesn't bother to pretend that he's sleeping for too long. He waits a beat then quickly jerks his shoulder a little, as if he's just woken up. He turns to face his dad.

"What's wrong?" He asks his father, eyes squinting against the light of the hall. 

"Were you out tonight?" 

Stiles' heart jumps into his throat, but he forces his expression to remain neutral. 

"There was a party," he replies, thankful that the scratchiness of his voice can be attributed to sleep. "Was I not supposed to go?"

The sheriff visibly relaxes, relief smoothing the lines on his face and Stiles feels like a fraud. 

"No, it’s fine," his dad says. He's still in his uniform, crumpled as it is. "We just found ... Well, we can talk about it tomorrow. There's no rush." 

"Sure," Stiles replies, throat dry. "Of course." 

"Goodnight, kiddo," the sheriff says, closing the door quietly leaving Stiles in the dark - alone with his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Uncanny', 'phantasm', 'doppelgänger' - can you tell I've been reading Freud a lot lately? 
> 
> Unfortunately, because of this horrendous essay that I had due in on the 9th for my Lit Theory class (thanks a bunch Freud) I'm a little (a lot) behind schedule for the planned word fest of this month. But fear not! I have just rejumbled my schedule a little to try to make it all fit in. 
> 
> Suffice to say, updates will probably have no sense of regulation to them, please bear with me.
> 
> Also, I haven't actually watched the scene with Stiles' mother in the new season. I know of it, and I've seen a few gifs of it, but that's the extent of my knowledge so I'm assuming that my rendition of it here is different from the show haha :) 
> 
> As always find me on tumblr under cousinstiles or thelogicoftaste ^.^


	10. Doll House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Oh no," you all say. "She's back again."

But our home has been nothing but a play-room. I've been your doll-wife here, just as at home I was Papa's doll-child.

**Henrik Ibsen**

-

Stiles is an early riser. Less by natural want and more by instilled discipline. The house is quiet when he wakes, and he feels innocuous lying there, in the same _grown-up_ bed sheets he'd carted around from city to town to city since he was eight years old. 

His body aches - muscles pulling taut over bruised skin, cotton rubbing against tender joints as he heaves himself up and goes downstairs for breakfast. 

The twins are already in the kitchen. Stiles hears them, hears the clanking of dishes and the low murmur of conversation.  

So, two steps from the hallway he turns his posture lazy - slanting just a little to the left, scratching beneath his shirt as he yawns loud and exaggerated.

"Morning," Stiles greets. He slumps heavily into his chair, sighing loudly in satisfaction and hoping desperately that his face resembles more a smile than a grimace of pain. 

It's not until he has his mouth full - a large swig of apple juice mixed with a generous bit of a toasted sesame bagel - that he notices Erica's shrewd gaze. 

Stiles blinks; once, twice. "What?" 

Isaac, to his right recoils away from the minute spray of bagel crumbs from Stiles' mouth with practiced ease - attention solely on his cell phone.

Erica, with her own bagel clutched delicately between raspberry pink nails, narrows her eyes. "You were out last night." 

Stiles narrows his own back, playfully, though his heart kicks up a notch in his chest, a light sweat breaking out over the nape of his neck. 

"Are you my keeper?" He asks, picking up his glass, if only for something to do. 

"Where were you last night?" 

"Why do you need to know?"

Isaac leans in, sipping at his orange juice as he regards Stiles intently. 

"Rumour has it," he says. "That Stevie Calabar was organising a rave." 

Stiles flicks his gaze from Isaac to Erica, the twin expressions of _consternation_ on their faces. Relief flows over his like a balm - quick and cooling. 

Stiles laughs, jilted and awkward, but the smile on his face is genuine. He leans forward, posture relaxing into the comfortable familiarity of sibling dispute. 

He taps his index finger on the smooth surface of the table. "Now, what does that have to do with me?" 

Erica's eyes, barren of make-up and incredibly young, are wide and unrelenting. "Did you go?" 

"Go where?" Stiles asks blithely. "To sleep? Yep. I definitely did that. Eight blissful hours away from the two of you chattering in my ear like hyenas."  

Isaac drains the last of his juice, smacks his lips in satisfaction. "You're such a dick," he says pleasantly. 

Stiles smiles back at him, saccharine sweet. "I have to be, to deal with you." 

Beneath the table, Erica bludgeons her socked feet into Stiles' calf. "Since when do you keep secrets from us?" she demands, words jolting as Stiles retaliates. 

"Since the day you learned how to speak," he counters, not unkindly.  

Isaac, always incapable of keeping his nose from business it doesn't belong to - a trait, Stiles will admit, unnecessarily common to the Stilinski clan - pistons his foot straight into the middle of his older siblings' wrestling.

"You're both _children_ ," he bites out, doing his best to stop them. He succeeds eventually - his diligence to core strengthening (which Stiles and Erica tend to skimp out on) allows him to balance his position on his chair.

His legs are taut and tensed, keeping both Erica and Stiles' juddering legs from scrapping against each other.  

Erica turns her ire towards Isaac, blonde hair falling from her thick braid, curling into frizzed ends. 

"You know," she says, still struggling against the position Isaac's leg has trapped her own against her chair. "When I was your age, I respected my elders." 

Isaac scoffs. "You mean twenty-two minutes ago."

“Yes,” Erica snipes back. “So move your leg, before I rip it off of you and shove it right up your _ass_ -”

The Sheriff walks into the kitchen then, startling Erica into biting off the end of her sentence. His clothes are sleep-wrinkled, soft and worn, but he still looks imposing and serious, gaze sharp and only a little reprimanding.

“Good morning,” he says judiciously, and he steps around the table to the cabinets. He prepares his oatmeal quickly and efficiently, and doesn’t even mention Erica’s choice of words. 

She reaches up for him when he goes to sit beside her; short nails digging into his forearm. 

“Dad,” she wheedles, pulling at him impatiently. “Dad, _listen_.”

John sighs, long and haggard, trying his utmost to keep his balance on the chair. “Yes, Erica?”

“Stiles is keeping secrets from us.”

If it were anyone else but his father, Stiles would be humiliated at how quickly his face turns red. His blush is splotchy and hot, flooding over his face in response to one sharp look from his father.

“I went to a party without them,” is Stiles’ indignant reply. “Am I not allowed to have a life separate to them now?”

The Sheriff pauses – demeanour changing from hunter to dad in less than three seconds – and his shoulders droop in tune to Erica’s whining into his ear beside him. 

-

Weekend training usually starts at the cusp of the afternoon, leaving the kids free to while away their mornings as they wish and so, breakfast is dragged out, all of them cherishing having their father at home.

The dregs of their dad’s coffee have long gone cold, and the plates on the table harbour nothing but crumbs and errant smears of olive butter and ginger marmalade.

Erica is hunched over in her chair, one leg on the floor, and the other swinging over the arm as her teeth pick at the nail of her thumb and she scrolls through her cell – an unattractive position if Stiles ever saw one.

Isaac’s neck is fully retracted to the naked eye – his chin is entirely attached to his chest, shoulders making their home somewhere around his ears and he’s drooping so much in his chair, Stiles wonders how he hasn’t toppled to the floor yet. He’s quite tempted, nevertheless, to kick Isaac’s chair from under him to see this tragic descent play out – purely for the entertainment.

Stiles is slumped over the table, head resting on his hands, intermittently watching his father, as he squints at his iPad, trying to adjust the settings for the in-built backlight so he can read his article all the better. 

A painstaking twenty minutes later, and his father is finished. He turns off the iPad with far more gentleness than the kids have ever shown it, and places it neatly on the table.

When he stands, the kids perk up with him.

“Stiles,” he says, “Come with me. We have business to attend to.”

Stiles stands up, but so do the twins. The sheriff raises a hand to stop them – and they do, but they each harbour symmetrical expressions of confusion on their faces.

John’s voice is exasperated but routinely so – as if he’s just come to expect that the twins take Stiles’ name as synonyms for their own. “What are you doing?”

Isaac, frozen mid-position, gestures awkwardly. “Going with you?”

The sheriff pinches the bridge of his nose. “ _Just_ Stiles.”

Stiles, standing half a step behind his father – because, try as John might, he simply doesn’t quite grasp the essence of respecting personal spaces – tries not to gloat too much, but he can’t resist turning around one last time to stick his tongue out at the indignant looks on his siblings’ faces.

-

His dad’s office is undoubtedly colder when Stiles is only wearing a thin t-shirt and an old pair of sweats. He shuffles his seat closer to his dad’s desk and huddles into it, elbows placed determinedly on the surface.

The sheriff, however, moves over to the safe, pulling out a set of files before sitting in front of Stiles.

Stiles watches him carefully, devoid of playfulness now. His heart beats hard in chest, and a small part of him can’t help but wonder how swiftly his house of cards will crumble.

“Anything new?” he asks, and if his voice trembles around the syllables, his father makes no mention of it.

John sighs deeply, and he opens the file in his hand. It’s a simple plastic file, a dull-clouded white, which opens horizontally instead of the vertical Stilinski folders. Inside there are some photocopies of police reports, reading upside down, Stiles can only vaguely make out the _Beacon Hills Police Department_ header.

“We found a body last night,” the sheriff starts. “Downtown, in an alley that cuts behind the warehouses.”

“Is it the same MO as the other ones?” Stiles asks, feigning ignorance. “Is that why you’re worried?”

His dad reaches down into the second drawer of his desk. He pulls out a work iPad from its soft black sleeve. 

It takes a few moments to activate it and get it to where he wants it, but eventually John turns the screen around to face Stiles. 

"This is the victim," he says, and Stiles gulps hard, trying not to fixate on the fringed tassels of the victim's scarf. 

The first few photographs are taken in the alley. It's the man Stiles remembers from the night before, his denim jacket is dark with blood, his eyes open, and his cigarette lighter smashed by his side. 

The sheriff leans forward, taps the glass screen of the iPad. "We don't know his name yet, but we figure he's in his early twenties. What's interesting is that he _didn't_ die a three-fold death." 

Stiles had expected this, in any case, but he couldn't well tell his father that Derek had (once again) saved his life from the clutches of the weekly big bad. 

"It breaks the pattern," Stiles surmises, crinkling his brow. "How did he die, then?" 

The Sheriff swipes the screen until he comes to a close-up of the victim's neck. 

He's been transferred to the morgue at this point, the dulled metal reflecting the flash of the camera. The victim's head is cradled between gloved hands, angling his head up and away so that the camera can capture a clear picture of the wound at the back. 

"He was stabbed," the sheriff says. 

Stiles freezes, breath caught in his throat, because Derek didn't have a knife that night. 

He looks up at his father, hesitant even, to look him in the eye. "Claw marks?" 

"The victim _did_ have claw marks, but they were shallow; enough to incapacitate but not enough to kill. This wound was the result of a blade, a quick clean break of the cerebral cortex. Tue murderer knew exactly what they were doing." 

When Stiles speaks, his voice is faint, eyes flickering over the image trying to process everything. If Derek hadn't killed the shifter, that means that someone else had - but he hadn't mentioned anything about it. Had they been followed, Stiles wonders? Or had Derek had someone else with him? Had he kept this from Stiles. 

"This was an execution?"

"We think so," the sheriff sighs, sitting back in his chair, and Stiles asks his expression as soon as his father looks at him. "We were called to the scene because of a noise disturbance, people had heard loud howling throughout downtown. We have Hale in for questioning, we're trying to cement an alibi from him but he's not being very cooperative." 

Stiles licks his lips, they're dry and cracked, paled to a light pink with stress. "And if you can't find an alibi?"

Stiles' dad laughs, but it holds a bitter note. "What are we going to do? Lock him up on the basis that he's half anim-," he stops, catches himself, "a werewolf? We don't even have enough evidence to link him to last night other than the fact that he was recently arrested in connection with his sister's death." 

Stiles nods, but he's still a little distracted. He looks down at the digital pictures, swipes again only to come across a picture of the victim front-on.

Stiles feels the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end, the same feeling of wooziness from the night before drifts over him - the victim, even captured in a photograph, looks real and unreal; there but not. It's uncanny. 

"What is it?" He finds himself asking, staring unblinkingly at the screen. 

"It's a changeling, Stiles," his father says. "Look here," he directs, scrolling back to a picture of the victim in the alley - his hair is black, and his eyes an approximation. Then the sheriff goes back to the picture that Stiles was looking at. "And now here. Its hair is lighter here, you see? His cheeks are more defined and slimmer. They don't belong to that face.

He scrolls forward to a picture where gloved hands hold open the victim's eyes. The left is the dark colour found originally on the shifter, the other is still brown but much lighter; honey toned, like Stiles'. He has two moles too, lining up beside his mouth like someone had taken a mirror to Stiles' own face. 

Stiles' eyes enlarge in panic, gaze scrambling to meet the sheriff's, but there's no anger in his father's face. 

He hums deeply, "Changelings have a special skill, I guess you could say. They have a glamour, in order to incapacitate their victims. They adopt the faces and mannerisms of people dear to the victims, people they wouldn't even dream of thinking they would hurt them." 

"So," Stiles breathes, pointedly not thinking about the shifter wearing his mother's face, wearing _Derek's_. "It's to shock the victims into complacency? By having their friends and family seemingly attack them?"

"Not exactly," the sheriff explains. "You see, these types of shifters are not typically single attack perpetrators. They're known for kidnapping their victims, keeping them for as long as they can because they feed on life essence, and on strife, on pain, on _hurt_. This is why they pick out specific faces to wear. It's not casual friends, or co-workers, acquaintances, even if the victim would be shocked to see them attacking them. These types of shifters feed on a deeper kind of bond, so they take on people the victims love: parents, children, spouses, siblings etc." 

Stiles' breath is short in his mouth; it feels too heavy, too wet. He blinks hard, looks at the screen to avoid looking at his father and does his best to keep his voice regulated, "Can the shifter turn into the victim?" 

"I mean, there's no reason for why it can't," the sheriff shrugs. "But it's very rare. If, for example, the victim lacks a bond deep or strong enough. Or they're a narcissist." 

His father cocks an eyebrow, and Stiles laughs, but it feels wrong on his face. The smile on his face is fragile and cantankerous, falling apart at the corners.

"Which is why," the sheriff continues, "this is worrying me."

He directs Stiles' attention back to the photograph of the shifter. "It looks like you," he asks quietly, "Don't you think?"

Stiles' eyes are huge in his face, watching his father warily, bracing himself for conflict. But John isn't even looking at him, instead, his attention is solely on the shifter. 

"Occasionally, when hunters get to witness the death of these shifters, they note that changelings tend to rotate through their last veils. Not fully, and never the full face of their victims - only a few features for their most recent glamours. But this thing couldn't have seen you. You weren't in downtown yesterday, were you?" 

Stiles looks up at his father. "No, sir." He fights the urge to maintain eye contact with his father's sharp gaze, looking back down at the tablet once more. 

A beat later, the sheriff sighs once more. "Then, it's what I originally thought. The changeling must have attached itself to me when I was examining it." Quietly, and almost to himself, he murmurs, "But I don't recognise the facial features of the first cycle."

Stiles bites down on the inside of his mouth, asks hesitantly. "What does it mean, then, about the shifter?" 

"It might possibly mean that the changeling died, but not its body. But I don't know, Stiles," the sheriff breathes deeply, eyes settling in the middle distance and clouding with worry. "I just don't know." 

-

“Again!” Stiles yells, relentless.

He might ( _might_ ) be going a little too hard on Scott. Though any reservations he might have with the treatment on his friend doesn’t show itself on his face.

Scott’s nose thickens out in frustration, the bridge morphing flat as pronounced ridges appear at the onset of his bushy eyebrows. His eyes glint gold. It’s clear he’s trying to reign in his transformation, but the deep grooves his feet leave on the dampened mud beneath the grass and the glimpse of canine sharpness just behind his lips proves that the attempt remains futile.

Stiles takes a running start. His grip tightens around the handle of his lacrosse stick before he uses the momentum to twist his body. He makes a full turn, feeling the movement burn across his lower ribs and his thighs, and on the second rotation, he allows the ball to arc through the air. 

His shoulder smarts at the bite of the throw but before he can even recover, there's a moving blur. Scott is still as lean as he was before he was bitten, but there's just something about him now - an undeniable acuity about the way he moves that screams preternatural. 

He catches the ball easily, because of course he does.

Stiles, breathing heavily, nods once – _sharp_ \- and Scott melts to the grass. He flops face down, the long tendrils of untreated grass tickle his nose and the sweat that had beaded at his forehead begins to run sideways. 

From where Stiles is standing, stiff and agitated, he has the unobstructed view of Lydia, sitting primly criss-crossed on the other side of the training field. She shifts the blanket under her before she places her book down. 

"Are you satisfied?" she asks, at last.

She's been unimpressed with Stiles since he dragged the group out into the middle of the woods earlier that morning.

“Strength training,” he’d told Scott, his palm smacking his buddy’s broad shoulder with a wide, stale grin on his face. Scott had been agreeable, more than. Enough that Stiles felt it was justifiable to simply skip on the minutiae of his real plan.

He wants to tire out Scott so that if and when (definitely when, Stiles decides, side-eyeing him) the aggression of a newborn wolf meeting a foreign alpha for the first time raises hackles, Scott will be as effective as a wet blanket.

Stiles narrows his eyes at Lydia.

“Sweetheart,” he says, lip curling over his teeth. He’s too tired to mask the condescension in his tone. “You can leave if you want, _anytime_ you want.”

The muscle beneath her eye ticks, her fingers tighten around the edges of her book.

“Sweetheart,” she retorts, glowering tightly back at him. “My manicure is _just_ sharp enough to blind you. Don’t _talk_ to me like that.”

Erica, next to Lydia, opens her mouth - ready for some smart retort Stiles is sure of it. He’s barely even thinking when he turns sharply to his younger sister.

“Shut up,” he snaps, finger pointed in her direction.

The reaction is immediate, the entire atmosphere around them stilling, sharpening.

The smile drops off of Erica’s face in an instant. She’s shocked, feeling suitably chastised. But more than that, she looks _hurt_. Her eyes drop away from her brother’s face and her mouth tightens.

Isaac, sitting beside her, stares unabashedly at Stiles.

“What crawled up your ass and died?” he derides, eyes hard and tight.

Stiles ignores him, ignores the looks he’s receiving from Lydia and Scott too.

“Erica-,” he tries. But her response is quick, unforgiving.

“You’re an _asshole_.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, even though she doesn’t acknowledge it, even though it sounds weak to his own ears.

Stiles’ chest is tight; aching in a way that has nothing to do with physical injury. There’s a knot of dense anxiety sitting large and solid beneath his breastplate, so swollen it presses on his throat, makes him want to scream.

His eyes sting wet whenever he thinks about it for too long, so he attempts to avoid thinking at all – he’s been careless. _So_ careless and he doesn’t know what to do now.

But he can’t tell anybody. It’s his own fault but he can’t help but resent those around him for not saying anything, for letting him get like this.

Stiles takes a deep breath, and it rattles through his chest, but before he can say anything, apologise more, there’s a sound.

It’s deliberate, heavy – an action meant not to startle.

Derek appears through the foliage. He makes his way forward, standing some two metres away from Stiles. His fingers curl in towards his body, twitching once before settling. It’s a little quirk of nervousness that Stiles has noticed (one of the many quirks of Derek’s body that he pretends he hasn’t memorized).

His face, however, remains impassive; his jaw strong and defined beneath his stubble. His eyes linger on Stiles before roaming the others, settling on Scott.

Scott is quick to scramble up, retreating back towards Lydia and the twins on the blanket. His face is fully morphed now, his nails long and grotesque – but his back is hunched over, ready to protect, so Stiles supposes he hasn’t fully lost his mind yet.

Derek watches him steadily. He blinks, and his eyes wander back to Stiles. He gestures awkwardly but tone is brusque, “Is this the kid?”

There’s a split second of silence; a quarter of a beat.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” he tells Derek, “because I have a whole host of other werewolves on hand for when I need to approach my friendly neighbourhood alpha.”

The tension in Derek’s face drops to annoyance, and all of a sudden it’s like they’re alone – bickering at each other with comfort and familiarity.

Not that Stiles wants to make it obvious that his continual rendezvous with Derek have been varied and many. Or any at all.

Derek snaps out of it first. Eyes turning back to Scott.

His eyes blaze red, slow and deliberate – the colour of a searing fire rousing to life. It’s a call for submission. Dominance at it’s finest.

Scott’s eyes, Stiles can see, react with vehemence. His eyes flare gold in response. It’s instinctual, visceral – a rebuke.

Stiles too reacts instinctively, his gaze falls to Isaac, where his little brother is holding his wolfsbane blade tightly in his palm, attention on Scott’s every move.

Erica has angled her body in front of Lydia, shielding her even though Lydia’s eyes haven’t left Scott, and she leans towards her cousin. Stiles’ body tightens in preparation to protect his siblings; he curses himself for letting his guard down, for leaving his gun in the pocket of his jacket on the pile of his things on the blanket.

He catches Erica's eye. Slowly, he presses the nail of his right thumb flat against the cold tip of his nose. Deliberately, he moves his thumb to repeat the action on the hinge of his jaw on the left.

 _Shoot without hesitation_.

 _Incapacitate_.

Then he presses his hand on his rib, indicating the pocket of his jacket. Erica doesn't make a sound, doesn't nod or make any outwardly suggestion that she's received what he's trying to say. But a second later she moves her body so as to pull Stiles' things closer towards her, a movement that would look careless, instinctive, to the casual observer. 

When Stiles turns back, he's met with Derek's careful, curious gaze. But Stiles doesn't indulge him, instead he turns his focus back on to Scott, whose low gravel-toned reverberations suggest that he's not the happiest camper at the meeting. 

His head twitches, an unnatural tic that's over just as soon a it's starts. It's whippet fast, reminds Stiles of the horrible reptilian humanoid he's previously encountered. Not the best memory to associate with your best friend, to say the least. 

Scott's body is tense, ready to pounce, but his attention is not on anyone in the clearing. Rather he's interested in the dense, leafy forestry behind Derek. He's acting like ... _oh_. 

Stiles turns abruptly towards Derek, "Did you bring anyone else here?" 

Derek's eyes slide from Scott to Stiles. His eyebrows twitch at him. Stiles bristles at the insolence, he swears right down to the Virgin Mary and every saint in between that the day will come when he will shave Derek Hale's eyebrows off. 

"So what if I did?" he asks, and his voice is low, rough. "Is that illegal?" 

Before Stiles' words can burst out of him, Isaac's addressing the werewolf. 

"Not illegal," he says, a bitter grin catching his mouth. His eyes flicker to Derek's. "But inconsiderate, y'know, given the circumstances."

Derek tries to clamp down on his smile, Stiles on the other hand, is trying very hard not to eviscerate him on the spot. 

Stiles' anger begins and ends with Derek himself. With his body, his gaze, his very _existence_ in Stiles. 

He tries his best to tamper down on his anger - his grandfather has always told him that anger is an unnecessary trait for a hunter, a dangerous one - but as a result his words are clipped and short. 

"Bring out the wolves you have in hiding," he tells Derek. Gaze hard, unfaltering. "Do you think I’m stupid? This isn't a time for games." 

The humour seems to evaporate from Derek. His expression turns unreadable, and Stiles has the most peculiar urge to take his words back.

"Come," Derek says, but though his eyes are on Stiles, it's clear the command isn't set for him. 

From behind him, comes the rustling of the vegetation. If Stiles strains his ears, he can hear the muffled movements of steps. 

They appear clumsily, and look more like a ragtag group of ... well, _teenagers_ , rather than a pack of lethal creatures. 

The first to appear is a black boy, one whom Stiles is certain he's seen around his high school. He's as tall as Derek, or maybe more than. He stands some feet away from the alpha, arms crossed in front of his body, shoulders wide and imposing. 

Lydia startles, "Boyd?" 

Stiles glances between them - Lydia's jaw hangs loose, her skin paler than usual. Boyd looks uncomfortable but he doesn't acknowledge her. 

From behind Boyd steps out a girl, black hair fanning around her shoulders. She's short and slim but has an athletic build, and a face full of emotion. She grins uneasily upon catching Stiles' eye, an awkward wave accompanying it. It takes everything that Stiles has not to roll his eyes. 

Rounding out the group at the back are two more kids, but they look young, as young as the twins, or maybe even younger. They walk in together, stand together, look around together.

The black boy's fingers are wound tight in the sleeve of his companion.

"This is my pack," Derek says, and Stiles notes the distinct lack of overzealous pride or satisfaction in the statement. 

Instead, Derek looks like he just accidentally wandered into the alphahood of four orphaned delinquents; which, if Stiles thinks about it, is probably what happened. 

" _This_ is your pack?"

Derek bristles, shoulder muscles rippling at the provocation. Now _that_ right there is the reaction Stiles was looking for; nothing like pressing down on a sore spot until it hurts.

"Yes." 

"All of it?"

" _Yes_." 

Stiles tilts his head.

Derek remains silent.

Stiles narrows his eyes. 

"Maybe you ought to cut the crap," he barks at last. "Why don’t you tell your other pals to show themselves? You're making Scotty nervous." 

At the sound of his name, Scott's attention diverts his gaze towards Stiles. He growls loud and abrupt – the werewolf version of support, Stiles supposes.

Stiles tries not to show any outwardly reaction, but the truth of the matter is that he's agitated. Scott's too close to the twins, to Lydia too, and Stiles is armed with nothing but a lacrosse stick at his feet.

He's underprepared - he'd lost track of time and he didn't consider the fact that Derek would bring along his pack on this first meeting. 

It's early morning on a weekend, the sun is straining through the clouds, basking the earth in a little warmth but Stiles feels cold all over. 

"Is this a meeting or an ambush?" Stiles demands once again, disregarding the heat in his cheeks. 

Derek's lips tighten. Then, he says something, too soft for Stiles too hear. 

From the back of the pack, emerge two girls. 

They're certainly more imposing than the girl besides Boyd, despite being around the same height and build. Stiles finds his stance naturally adjusting to defence in response to their presence. 

He hates being in situations he didn't foresee; he _hates_ being at a disadvantage. 

Matters are made worse when, unlike Stiles expected, the two girls don't stand behind their Alpha, as the rest have done. 

Instead, they pick their way to the front, standing on either side of Derek, on equal footing. 

Derek's hand twitches once more, like he wants to relieve an itch on the back of his neck. 

He gestures to the girl on his right. "This is Malia," he introduces awkwardly.

Malia, for her part, simply bares her teeth in acknowledgement. 

To the other girl, Derek merely nods, succinct. "Cora." 

The silence is unbearable. It's a frayed rope hanging on for dear life. 

"Well," Erica mutters to herself. "Isn’t this just grand?" 

-

The meeting goes just as well as Stiles would expect. That is to say, not at all. 

It takes a long time to calm Scott down from his aggressive stance, to make him feel less like he's being cornered by another pack (which he is, but, you know, _details_ ).

Lydia stands up abruptly, and shrugging off the twins, she steps forward towards her cousin. Her eyes are alight with fear, but her movements are resolute. 

She slips her small hand in Scott's, squeezes tightly. To Stiles, she directs a sharp look which he interprets as a harried _fix it_. 

The closeness of his cousin seems to calm Scott down some. His eyes remain a static gold, his teeth sharp, but his claws retract immediately and his face looks a lot more human that it did a second ago.

He squeezes Lydia’s hand back, and they share a look.

This display of calm (or an approximation of it, nevertheless) prompts Derek into speaking. His voice is stilted, uncomfortable, and it’s clear to everyone that he’s unused to diplomacy.

"We're here to negotiate the terms of accepting Scott into our pack." 

"Temporarily," stresses Cora. “We will be _temporarily_ accepting him, should you meet our conditions.”

“I thought,” Stiles remarks, through gritted teeth, ignoring her completely. “That our conditions had already been outlined and met.”

“ _You_ established your own conditions,” Cora says again, and Stiles thinks how nice it would be to knock her down a few pegs. “Our pack did no such thing.”

Stiles turns his attention to her, disliking, despite himself, the way she stands too close to Derek, the way she thinks she can speak for him. 

"Who are you, again?" He asks, petty as the day he was born. 

Unfortunately for him, she seems more bored than irked. 

"His second in command," she says, and she reminds him of Derek in a strange way. The way they speak, biting around their words like their time is golden and the listener should bow at their feet, thankful for the chance to hear muttered syllables stringed together to form a half coherent sentence.

Stiles glances at Derek. "Your alpha doesn't seem to be too happy about that." 

She raises a dark brow, full lips pushing together in a smirk. Her arms are crossed. "You're very confident in assuming what my _alpha_ ," and here she lets the word hang in the air, an unfinished thought on a thin string, then she offers a sardonic smile, "feels. I wonder why that is." 

Well. Stiles thinks. She's got me there. 

Before he can even retort, she's moving. 

She's fast, faster than anything he's seen in a long time. Her arm darts out to the side and curls around nothing, around air. 

It happens in the space of a second, a fragment of a moment. 

Stiles blinks and Cora is has her hand wrapped firmly around the body of an arrow - stopping its course mere centimetres away from where it would have lodged in Derek's chest. 

Another moment, and the burn of wolfsbane singes her palm; her hand springs open with a gasp of pain, and the arrow drops to the floor. 

Erica springs forward, grabbing Lydia's hand, she drags the other girl down to the floor, huddling them both. 

Another arrow flies in, the trajectory Stiles surmises it’s coming from up high, but the sun is too bright, he can't _see_ anything.

The whole clearing is a blue of movement. 

Isaac tosses Stiles his gun, before he crouches by his Erica, and Stiles is quick to turn off the safety. 

There's a loud pained grunt and someone yells for Boyd, Stiles looks up just in time to the other boy's knees fall under him, the slim girl at his side taking his weight even as they try to move out of the open space, an wolfsbane tipped arrow protruding from his shoulder. 

Stiles spins around trying to figure out where the arrows are coming from, his grip on Batman unsteady, shaken by the deep, guttural growl emanating from Derek's throat as he positions himself in front of his scattering pack. 

And just like that, it stops. 

Reloading, Stiles thinks instantly. There weren't that many arrows thrown, most of them are stuck in the ground. 

Boyd's large body, unfortunately, seems to have been prime target for the hunter. 

Hunter.

Singular.

One projective direction, a limited number of arrows and time to recharge. 

Stiles stares at the arrows embedded in the soft mud, he knows them, recognises them. His eyes dart up to Derek's red ones.

"Argent," he says. And it only takes that one word for Derek's face to collapse in fear. 

It last only for a second, but it's enough. 

"Leave," Stiles urges, and he doesn't care that his emotions are being laid out bare for Derek to see. "Take your pack, take Scott and go, _now_." 

Derek hesitates, eyes flickering down to green before he remembers himself. Malia, beside him, looks just as astonished. 

An arrow flies, crisp and succinct; Derek only just manages to avoid it.

Another one, sunk into Scott's waist - Lydia's hyperventilating now, loud, harsh breaths rattling through her small frame. She cries Scott's name.

" _Derek!_ "

Scott scrambles for Lydia, tucking her in his body, and he runs towards the pack. Derek tries to protect them as best he can, arrows ripping into his soft leather jacket, and his even softer skin beneath.

Stiles in a moment of stupid, _stupid_ , impulsiveness fires a round in the direction of the hunter. 

The gunshot is sharp and acidic in the wake of silent arrows. Stillness descends. 

It buys Derek's pack enough time to leave, but it also means that Stiles and the twins have to get the hell out of this clearing, out of this preserve, in case anyone is around to hear and report a gunshot. 

Stiles' skin prickles with the unwavering gazes of his younger siblings. He ignores them; he ignores the confusion in Erica's gaze, the accusation in Isaac's. 

He beckons them towards him with a flick of his wrist. They're mad at him, he can tell, but they still obey him. 

They arrange themselves next to their big brother. Their body heat does wonders for easing Stiles' nerves.  

They don't have to wait long. There's a long rustling of leaves and then a body drops from the foliage. Sleek, streamlined and soft-footed.

Allison.

 -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this sucks. For a (semi) detailed post on why I suck, please refer to[this blog post](http://thelogicoftaste.tumblr.com/post/151021633730/27-september-2016)  
> I'll be updating in three months. 
> 
> Just kidding ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I upload weekly, in which 'weekly' usually tends to come with two or three extra working days ...


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